


a conspiracy of cartographers

by twigcollins



Series: moments in another time [15]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:39:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pieces are all assembled, and the players begin to move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hum of the airship engines is remarkably quiet, Archadian ships and their commanders all such subtle destroyers. A rumble that seeps into Ashe’s bones and intrudes on her thoughts all the same. She shifts on the narrow bench in the tiny room, wondering how long she’s been inside. It feels as if an age has passed. Exhaustion pushes at her like itchy roving behind her eyes, the soft murmur of the Ifrit as a constant reminder that two years of planning and determination have all ended here. Trapped in the confines of an impenetrable Archadian warship, in abject failure on her way to an even more total imprisonment - or worse. 

Who knows where Vossler is, or any of those who fought so valiantly in Dalmasca’s name. Ashe doesn’t even know of the fate of the pirate or his unfortunate crew, and even if he was not there to aid her she does not like to think of him dead.

She keeps her back straight, her poise commanding and her chin held high, even though there is no one watching. It had been bad enough, escorted between the soldiers like a prize, with the Judge Magister’s smug satisfaction as their vanguard, but Ashe thinks this might be worse. Ignorant of what is happening or when her situation might change, with no idea of where she will end up or why they haven’t simply executed her. 

An easy enough task, to kill a girl who is already dead.

Vossler had feared exactly this, he had counseled caution and patience but there were others who had assured her it was now or not at all, those who would not wait around to see what Vayne Solidor would make of the city - of her city, and her people. Oh, to be there in the shadows, forced to listen to that poisoned speech, to hear him invoke her name and her father’s name and the people, the people had _cheered_ for him… 

Two years of patience, and to have Vayne Solidor’s heart at the point of her blade and fail to end it. If it had killed her to finish him Ashe would not have begrudged it, to know that final satisfaction as she ran him through, and that her triumph would be the last that he would ever see. 

Two years of hiding and planning and cowering in corners, and now she has even less than that, not even the dream of vengeance and a land restored to shore up her resolve. 

Not even her wedding ring, the one memento Ashe had managed to cling to for all these days - preferring hunger to handing it over - but the pirate had set his price and she had been desperate enough to be stupid, and now he is dead in Nalbina and she has only a thin, pale line against her hand and the hope that she might die before it fades.

Frustration knots itself deep into each of her muscles, demanding action, not at all the first time she wishes she had been born a prince, a warrior meant for battle. Destined to die at Nalbina, perhaps, but at least there with a sword in her hand. 

If only there were a way to transmute her rage into a worthy purpose. Ashe has pondered it countless times, staring into the darkness in some borrowed bed, some dry corner of a storage shed or a chocobo’s stable or whatever shelter Vossler had found for the night. If Ashe could only make her vengeance burn as it ought, Archadia would lay in desolation, and never think to cross their borders again.

Truly a foolish fancy, a child’s contemplation - at least until the pirate had told her of the Dusk Shard, and the reason that it sang in her presence. Balthier spoke of the Midlight Shard, and she had heard the name whispered once or twice after the loss of Nabudis; old legends, the gifted relics of the Dynast-King, presumed lost to time if they had ever been real at all. Ashe had always thought her father kind, for how he tried to shelter her to the end, but she is no longer as certain of him as she needs to be.

The pirate spoke of it all so knowingly, as if it were not her heritage but his own. Balthier had been surprised at Ashe’s ignorance and she lacked any explanation for him, or for herself. How she had never been told of all he spoke of, supposedly the birthright of those who had come before her. Did her father know of the Dusk Shard? No, he could not have, to keep such a weapon at his disposal without ever speaking of it, or wielding it against their enemies, even at the end, even at Nalbina.

Why did he never tell her? Had he searched for it - but how could she have missed that? Surely the palace vaults would have been turned upside down in desperation. He would have told her, if he’d known - but how could he _not_ have known?

Ashe had lunged for the Dusk Shard, a few moments after they’d boarded the _Ifrit_. The guards believed she’d been subdued, the Judge Magister off his guard and she’d taken her chance. For a moment it even seemed she might win. Her hands had even brushed against the smooth, cool surface and Ashe remembered Vayne Solidor taunting her, how she lacked the nerve to finish him if Rabanastre must fall as well. An Imperial airship was not the city, though, and well worth the price of her life. Ashe had been prepared for that end, hands tight on the reins of her hate and her determination, flinging her will into the stone as she would with the strongest of magicks, wishing and hoping and commanding - _Burn them. Do it. Kill us all._

Nothing happened. No whisper of power, no spellsworn vengeance rushing to her aid, not even the faintest glimmer of light. All Ashe received for her valor was a blow to the head from the hilt of a soldier’s sword, before Ghis had thrown the guard away from her, shouting about how she was not meant to be harmed.

Not yet, Ashe thinks. Not yet. They have plans for her first. Oh, and she’s heard a good deal about the Empire and all they like to do behind closed doors. Her jaw aches, matching the twinge in the straightness of her spine and the place where she’d been struck, but she does not tremble, or tuck her legs up and wrap her arms around herself the way she had done as a small child, or in those long, blank days after they’d come to her with news of Nalbina. 

Who could imagine how much she’d come to hate a place she’s never seen?

The Archadians sent a healer to deal with the cuts and scrapes she’d collected from her bid at escape, but Ashe refused him before he could step past the threshold. Let another be their perfect, pretty hostage. She ignores the food they leave just inside the door, even thought her stomach seems to have grown claws, even though it is obviously a better meal than she’s had in months. The courtesy is not for her, but for the prisoner they believe her to be, and so there is nothing to eat.

If Ashe were truly brave, she would kill herself, here and now, without a single insult or desecration to her honor. Let her body burn upon the fire that had consumed her name some two years ago, and be done with it. Ashe clutches her hands tight along the bench, and stares past the opposite wall, the floor and ceilings all the same blank, flat gray and she kept breathing, even if each beat of her heart feels more and more a betrayal of the braver girl she ought to be.

\--------------------------

At first, the sound slips in and out beneath the rumble of the engines, easy to ignore because it ought not to exist. It takes a long time for Ashe to realize someone is singing, and that she knows the words - it’s a courting song, one of those that sounds like a lament, a desperate plea even if the love between lord and lady is certain. Ashe knows… she knows the voice even if she never had need for such favors, even if she’d been courted for so many years in so many small ways that by the time the vows were made there had never seemed a moment it might be otherwise.

Rasler is in the room with her. A pale ghost, green-blue and flickering like light through water, but he is there and he is singing and when he sees her looking, he smiles.

“Hello, my beautiful one. My brave love.”

Ashe pushes herself back into the corner of the room, all false stoicism abandoned, the breath rushing out of her. Funny that she should be so frightened, to finally go mad when she had wished for it through all the dull and leaden hours after her exile, or Nalbina. When what remained of the army had finally stumbled home, when his body lay cold before her and sanity seemed so pointless, without use or value.

“You aren’t mad, Ashelia. Beloved. My wife.”

Rasler wears the armor he died in, though it bears not a single scratch or mark of battle, and his is the same kind and noble face that whispered to her on starlit terraces, of nervousness and determination - and love. The way he’d leaned in and told her how much he loved her, a private confession even as they made their way to be wed, and later, on their wedding night, when he’d come to her like a man finally finding home and Ashe had never known the joy - even more than her own fierce love - of meaning so much to another.

“You can’t be real.”

He kneels before her, close but not quite touching. He cannot touch, she can still see right through his hands, past the gleam of a ghostly wedding band.

“I am as real as you want me to be.”

He looks so young. A brow unfurrowed by the weight of an unexpected crown and the tragedy that set it there, his eyes clear of the endless plans, the strategies and determinations, working always against unfavorable odds. No sign of the strange, frozen set of his expression when he had left her that final time, and though Ashe remembers his kiss and his embrace when she thinks of that moment it is only of the swirl of his cape and the set of his shoulders as he walked away forever.

Whatever this Rasler is, his eyes are clear of all but adoration, and it sticks in her with all the memory of losing home and husband.

“No.” Ashe whispers, the word a litany she has no power to stop. “No no no no.”

It must be some Archadian trick, to make her think she’s gone mad, or perhaps it is not even that and this is just their way of amusing themselves, a bit of torture for the long journey home. The false vision of her husband does not move from his genuflection, not the slightest waver of a man of flesh and blood but the worry in his eyes for her - that _is_ her Rasler, and she cannot bear to see it. 

“I never wished to see you weep.”

Ashe is crying - stupid, stupid useless girl - in great, hot tears that bubble over from whatever’s broken inside of her, that make it so difficult to speak. Rasler had not had time for her pleas, not in those final hours. Ashe remembers how it was, to be kindly but firmly set aside - it was her job to wait, to have faith and trust, and she had done as she was bid and they were all dead now.

“Oh my gentle Queen, to be given no more courtesy than the weakest pawn. To stand as the noble sacrifice of those you trusted, who were themselves betrayed. Your father believed he might treat with Archadia for peace, but such false empires only respect power, and ruthlessness.”

An offer, hidden in his words, not hidden at all well but that is likely the point. He is not Rasler, this is not a reunion. Ashe forces the tears back, curbed further by a sort of morbid curiosity. She is helpless aboard a ship that every moment takes her further from home, toward imprisonment, torture, execution - likely all of these, and with that in mind there is no reason not to entertain such delusions. What can this illusion possibly do that is worse than what is coming?

“What do you want?”

“I want to see you smile again, love.”

Ashe smiles, but it is bitter. “My husband never spoke to me so, with such endearments.” 

“His mistake.”

It is not him, Rasler is not real and not here and yet she has to keep her hands clasped so tight in front of her, to keep herself from reaching out, to run her fingers through his hair and they had _so little time_ together. Nothing at all to call a life, with all her memories buried beneath what came after. There are times she wonders if those brief, beautiful days had happened at all. 

Ashe knows she ought to strike out at this creature - whatever it is, whatever dares to wear his face, but she can’t. The lie is still better than being alone.

“What are you?” She whispers, nails digging into her thighs hard enough to hurt. “What do you think I can do for you?”

“I desire what you desire, to right the wrongs that have been done to you, and to Dalmasca. I long to see you tread upon the broken fangs of Solidor, and see all Archadia bow before you.”

Rasler never spoke so - but then, she was never there, in those the meetings when the battle lines were drawn and the plans arrayed. Ashe wasn’t there, when he learned of Nabudis, the deaths of father and mother, brothers and sisters and all he’d ever known. Dalmasca was not the home he chose for himself, and she’d done all she could to be that safe harbor, but he still woke in the night, shouting, angry - and he would always apologize, and never show that side of himself to her. It did not feel like Rasler was protecting her, but that she was not worthy of seeing it, not strong enough to know him true. Her husband had never truly confided in her, either his darkest fears or his most vengeful desires.

So little time for the two of them. Ashe has been a widow far longer than she’d ever been a wife. She stares at her fists - pale, delicate, _useless_ \- and strangles her voice into a toneless calm. 

“… how would I accomplish such a thing?”

“The treachery of Archadia lies deep, they have betrayed more than you know. The Shards are your birthright, set down from the Dynast-King, so that such an Empire could not rise to threaten those the gods have blessed. The sins that have been wrought, the blasphemy of those who would dare to challenge-“

“I can’t use the Dusk Shard.” Ashe blurts out, hating it that her voice cracks, that he hears her weakness and knows her failure. “I tried. I tried to stop them, but it didn’t work.”

“Oh, Ashe. Oh, my darling.” He is just a little bit amused by her naiveté, another expression Rasler never wore. “You are meant for a far greater purpose. Together, we will restore Dalmasca to its proper place, and then I will stand at your side, loyal consort to the Dynast-Queen.”

“You are not Rasler of Nabradia.”

Is she doing aught else now, but trying to convince herself? He smiles, so gently, looking up at her. They have been here before.

“You would never know it. Before long, all this would seem no more real than a passing fancy, a meaningless dream that we had ever been parted. I would be such a husband to you, Ashe.”

“W-what…” Ashe says, and swallows hard, each word taking all her strength to pull free, and she might be desperate and disloyal and alone but she is not such a fool to believe him. “What do you want in return?”

No tales of this end well for princesses, not a single one. He will want her soul, or the soul of her firstborn. He will ask for her absolute obedience, or perhaps dangle a silver sword above the throne, to take a limb each time she tells a lie. This spirit must want some obscene payment, in return for all her dreams.

He laughs, richly, and it floods through her like a river warmed by the sun. 

“I want to _live_ , Ashe.” Need and hunger bleed through the familiar tone, turning it strange. A glimpse of truth through the illusion. Rasler never wished for anything so fiercely. “I want to walk in the world again. I want only to love you.”

“That can’t be…”

“I ask nothing you do not wish to give. I will make you the sword to shatter that of Solidor, to cut down the Consul where he stands. You will break the back of proud Archades, and the world will know peace as it has not known in a thousand years.” His voice lowers, hands hovering over her still-clasped hands as if he would give anything to cross the barrier between them, to touch her for but a single moment. “Our children will walk this world as gods. You cannot imagine what I offer you.”

It’s all she can do not to gasp for air, and Ashe wants to shut her eyes, to retreat to darkness but that would mean looking away and he is not the man she loved, he isn’t, but Rasler is gone and dead as the King her father is dead and she is alone. Is there a point in pretending she can cast aside an offer of aid, even one so impossible? If he did not look like Rasler, it might be easier to agree… but is that truly what she wants?

He smiles, as if he can hear those thoughts, as if he knows how little he needs to press his advantage.

“Wish for me to stay. Tell me that I must never leave your side.”

“I… I don’t…”

Noises come from the hall, the sound of footsteps outside the door and Rasler’s image flickers violently as he rises quickly to his feet. Ashe moves with him, a spike of panic through her heart that only pierces deeper when he looks back to her and there is nothing but fear and worry and sorrow in his eyes.

“They are going to hurt you, Ashe, and I can’t stop them.”

“Wait! Please! Please-“ Ashe steps forward, reaching for him, all thoughts of real or unreal lost against the pain of seeing Rasler vanish again, of being alone in an empty Archadian cell - but he is gone, as if he had never been. 

The door opens, Vossler lifting the faceplate on the stolen helm even as he steps into the room, his expression tense and alert, too noble for anything so base as panic even though it’s clear he expects an alarm to ring out at any moment.

“My lady. Faram the father bless us, that you are safe. We must make haste.”

Ashe is seized for a moment by the absurd desire to order Vossler to leave her, so that Rasler might return. Whatever he is, he offered power, and even if his terms are false, even if the price _is_ her soul - just imagine it. Imagine Archadia trembling before her, throwing men and ships and all their might and deception against a power no augury could portend, their great armies scattered and broken at her feet. As Ashe had witnessed the end of all she loved.

Justice against those who deserve it most, and the return of her kingdom to glory. Name a price not worth the paying.

“Highness?” An edge of worry in Vossler’s tone. “You are unharmed?”

“I’m fine.” Ashe says, glancing from corner to corner of the empty room, no sign that she hasn’t been alone all this time. She fights back a shudder. “Let us quit this place at once.”


	2. Chapter 2

The pleasure palaces of the Levantian Assembly hang like loosely strung beads in the skies between Rozarria’s northern border and Archadia’s western edge. Gracious hosts to all and beholden to none, they are a veritable Balfonheim of the skies. A fleet ripe with vices to be discovered, courted and indulged, the ships so lavishly adorned that they can blind unwary pilots caught in the glare on sunny days. At night, they glitter brightly enough to outshine the stars.

The ships are in constant competition with their fellows, each more lavishly appointed than the last. The _Harmattan_ has its own racing track for skybikes twining in and around its heights, and a high wire act in between the buildings, nothing but a slender rope between the performers and the sea glittering far below. The _Pampero_ contains a menagerie of wild beasts from all the corners of Ivalice, and detailed replicas of fantastic treasures from across the ages. 

The _Mistral_ is, at least for the moment, the most elegant and exclusive casino, with a terraced path of floors pressed with golden, shining murals, leading up to a selection of private decks for those with the means or the nerve for the most spectacular bids. Waterfalls spill from hidden mechanisms on the walls surrounding the gaming tables, with flowers bursting from every pillar and post, a hanging garden in midair. All the dealers at the highest tables are viera, hired for the season at some surely absurd cost, adding a particular air of elegance and refinement to the already stunning surroundings.

It’s the perfect place, really, to be down a quarter of a million gil.

Al-Cid slowly flips up one card and then the next, a few extra seconds only delaying the inevitable, and the viera moves with dispassionate precision, scooping away another fifty-thousand of his gil with a sweep of her hand.

“So much for that Rozarrian luck, eh?” Lord Courtenay winces sympathetically, even as a few chips are added to his own pile, one that’s been casually growing for the last hour or so. At his side, Lia does not sigh or shift in her chair, though Al-Cid is beginning to bruise where she keeps discreetly kicking him under the table for every poor hand. No doubt she is comparing his luck to her own, stuck here being ogled by men who prefer money to manners when she could be off on any number of more exciting tasks. Al-Cid does wonder how Rosaline is getting along - and he can pretend that the moment’s distraction is what costs him another ten-thousand gil, but there’s little point to it. 

Lia’s next kick lands perfectly in line with the last, astonishingly painful for the space she has to work with and Al-Cid shifts in his chair to at least provide her with a fresh limb to aim for.

Any noble worth glancing at in the _Levantian_ has an entourage, though few are quite as openly shameless as Al-Cid is, the lovely faces and matching outfits of his ‘Four Roses’ still noteworthy even amidst this splendor, with at least one of the girls is attached to him at all times. The suggestion is that they are his bodyguards, though that rarely comes without a laugh - to guard him from what? The bartender and the dancing girls? The tables where he sees fit to squander the family fortune? 

Al-Cid is embarrassing at roulette, humiliated by dice, and there was a moogle game with small, colored stones where he could have simply handed his money across the table to the same result. The kindest thought is that the Queen dotes on her youngest son. The less complimentary is that he stands entirely unfit for any more noble purpose. 

If he were the sort of ambitious man who craved respect, if it grated that he was not seen as a man of power - the tenth son, with five princes and four princesses between himself and the throne - his life would be unbearable indeed.

His mother does hold him in her favor, true, but the Queen has never had much use for that which is not useful. He is neither being groomed for the throne or handsomely wedded or engaged in some venture of industry - Al-Cid is ridiculous and absurd, which makes him harmless - which means no one expects more from him, or notices except to laugh. He may throw around large sums of money as he likes, and no one pays much attention to just where his coin lands. 

His Roses are treated as empty-headed ornaments, when they were hand-picked by the Queen for a rather exceptional range of skills. If they had other names before they’d pledged their service to the throne, he does not know them. It is in the best interests of all involved if he stays foolish, providing the excuse and the cover for the girls to do their work while he makes a proper distraction of himself. 

He will admit, it is hardly taxing to suffer through extravagance, good food and wine and occasionally quite lovely company. Al-Cid is unsure of just what would happen, if he suddenly developed an untimely sense of ego, and was deemed a threat to the throne. He likes to think, after all their time together, that his beautiful Roses would at least give him a few minutes’ head start.

The rich and important are as like as anyone to have their share of ridiculous children, those too far down the line of succession to ever be properly attended to, yet too wealthy to think of any proper profession. There are as many Archadian faces here as those from his own empire, the debauched and demanding children of Bhujerba and Dalmasca and even those few of Nabradia with new homes on distant shores. Wealth erases such silly concerns as borders and allegiances, and he has gained quite a few secrets without even asking, from the daughters of Archadian generals seeking to impress him, to scandalize him or in a moment’s rebellion against the family bonds. The lesser sons of the greatest men in Archades will spill secrets as avidly as thousand-gil wine across the floor, toasting to the gods of wine and song alongside Al-Cid Margrace, the tenth son, the useless heir.

He has served his country quite well, in his own way.

“Oh, dear gods Margrace, look out below.” Courtenay laughs, flipping over his hand. The house wins, and yet another hefty cut of the Rozarrian budget finds itself in their possession. Lia’s kick seems more out of habit than actual malice, while she sips at her drink with an affected boredom that is truly not all that affected. 

At times the best way to tell his girls apart is how they hurt him - Lia and Rosaline preferring immediate and subtle retaliation while Vidonia will bide her time, and punch him once they’re behind closed doors. Dulcina has never punished him, which is to his benefit, Al-Cid only vaguely curious If there’d be enough of him left to apologize.

A moogle appears, with yet another bottle of wine, and Courtenay eagerly waves him forward. It has not escaped Al-Cid’s notice that, despite his string of good luck, the Lord is more than a little in his cups. Courtenay is not one of his informers, unwitting or otherwise. He hails from a high Archadian house, but not one of particular interest to the Rozarrian crown. He is one of the few who seems quite aware that Al-Cid’s uselessness is paired with a fair measure of opportunity, but if anything he treats it as a private joke, and they have always found reasons to remain amiable.

“You’re in high spirits today, my friend.” Al-Cid says, as Courtenay swirls the wine in his glass with what almost seems a nervous air.

“Oh, didn’t I mention? We’re celebrating! You’re no longer looking at the greatest card sharp aboard this floating jeweled codpiece, but a man far improved.“ He throws his arms out, extravagantly. “Behold, my gentle lord, the newest petty officer and makeshift ballast aboard His Imperial Majesty’s Inestimable and Remarkably Cramped Light Cruiser - the _Shiva_. Gods help us all.”

“You’re telling me you signed on?” he says, as Courtenay shakes his head in weary dismay.

“Despite all my best attempts at incompetence, Father went and purchased a commission. I can’t imagine what that must have cost. I had thought the shield of three brothers already in service to our esteemed country would be enough to spare me, but it seems it is not to be. At least Caris has the decency to be aboard the _Leviathan_ , so I might run into him only when he wishes to measure against my inadequacies.” Courtenay frowns, tugging at a bit of his long hair only to stare at it pensively. “They’re going to make me cut it, you know. I actually _like_ my hair.”

A vow of service is practically the kiss of death among the young Archadians of his acquaintance, trading a life of wine and women for eternal duty and obligation. Certainly, the Rozarrian Armada is no place Al-Cid ever wants to be but Archades treats its army like the sole calling from their true god. If a man should fail as a soldier, obviously he has failed as a man.

“The _Shiva_ is a good position, at least.” The smaller crafts and ground troops suffer as they always have, but no one has ever actually sunk an Imperial cruiser in any engagement, they are truly built to last. 

“Ah yes, my new life in a tin can, telling all the other little tin cans to stay in line. Margrace, I tell you, I can hardly wait.”

“I cannot imagine how being paid to look the other way could possibly work in your favor.” Al-Cid smirks, and Courtenay looks a bit relieved even as he frowns back. It strikes him that he might be the first one to know of this, that Courtenay has waited to tell him first. How strange it is, having enemies for friends.

“Don’t you start making the best of things now, or I’ll never get through this bottle.”

The viera keeps dealing. Courtenay keeps drinking. Al-Cid manages to take a few paltry hands, but for the most part it continues to be an utter debacle. Courtenay wins enough that he wonders how much it might take to buy himself back to freedom, but they both know he’d never truly dodge his fate. Even here at the margins of social obligation, there are orders that cannot be denied. If the Queen summoned him into such service, Al-Cid might doubt her faith in him - along with her good judgement - but he would not run.

“I suppose it is as good a place as any to wait out this ridiculous war. You know, we ought to put something down, for the end of all this.” Courtenay says, and he’s no longer smiling quite so brightly. “Whichever one of us wins, he owes the other a drink.”

“Should that not be the other way around?” Al-Cid laughs lightly. “Besides, I do not think it will be as bad as all that.”

Courtenay looks at him soberly.

“But why else are you here?”

The situation has been tense for years, ever since Archadia moved on Nabradia and took Dalmasca, since Nabudis - and there is still no clear measure of Nabudis, whether it stands as a mark of sheer Archadian brutality or only that none of them are truly in control. 

All that matters now is that on the very day that Vayne Solidor became Lord Consul, the _Alexander_ made its first successful flight across the Nam-Yensa Sandsea, sailing straight over the Jagd sands and stopping a mere fifty miles from the Rozarrian border. The largest, most powerful ship in the Archadian fleet can now go anywhere it wishes, and has thrown into stark relief just how much of Rozarria has been protected by nothing but sand and stone.

The Queen stands opposed to escalation now more than ever, making only those advances that they must to counter the Archadians. She is determined that if it be war, it will not be Rozarria to draw first blood, though such prudence has cost her in the court. Al-Cid has heard the mutters of discontent, suggestions of weakness and cowardice and even more pointed threats, that it is only a matter of time before one fleet or another takes matters into their own hands. One volley, one mistake - the whole border waits for that first shot like a runner at the starting gate.

The Rozarrian Empire does not have a history of stability - if anything, the threat of the Archadians have kept them united when they might have wished otherwise, but the calls to action now are downright frantic, demanding a swift and furious first response. 

Al-Cid can see the sense in it, that if Archadia is not stopped here and now there may be nothing left that can, but those who shout the loudest and ask for the most also have no clear end in sight. No border drawn, where Archadia must be pushed back to ensure their security. No clear measure of what will happen, when the Archadians surely match such aggression with their own. The Empires have territory between them that has been in dispute for centuries - there will never be an outcome fully in Rozarria’s favor, which means only a never-ending war in the service of those with their eye on the throne. 

The Rozarrian Empire could endure such a foolish bloodletting, but the line of Margrace will not survive.

“My apologies, I’ve gone and spoiled the mood.” Courtenay says.

“No, not at all.” Al-Cid says, throwing down another losing hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vidonia stroll by on the deck below, taking no notice of him, though her presence is the sign that Rosaline has finished with her work. “As the table proves, I am capable of doing that all on my own. It may be prudent that I retire, though. Otherwise I might find myself conscripted, and aiming at you from the other side of the clouds.”

“As you say, I am sure you’d find a way to make it work in your favor.” The Archadian smiles, but there’s a sadness in it too - this is goodbye, and for who knows how long. “Take care of yourself, Margrace. You know I live to see you lose your shirt at the tables.”

“You and every lady from here to the coast.” Margrace says, but the words are empty foolishness and they both know it- all a script they must follow even as the shiftless sons of privilege, and even if the ending satisfies no one. “Be safe, my friend.”

\-------------------

The Queen keeps an apartment in the penthouse at the _Pampero_ , though she herself has never visited, and when Al-Cid arrives Vidonia and Rosaline are already there. The former tosses him a bag loaded down with chips while the latter is reclined on the sofa, glaring with real venom at a piece of crystal on the table. Rosaline has a bevy of scientific accreditation from the most prestigious institutions in the Rozarrian capital, and is almost certainly the smartest person within a hundred miles of the Assembly.

“Worthless junk. The whole stash, little more than ballast.” 

Al-Cid had hardly bothered to get his hopes up, but the disappointment stings even so. It is not the first time an ambitious man has claimed to be dealing in Nethicite, nor the first time Rosaline has proved otherwise. A spiteful part of him hopes the man might still attempt to prove his product, sail the Jagd with his crates full of nothing and clear the skies of one more fool. The Queen will not be pleased, this had been a more promising lead than the last, but Nethicite continues to act as a phantom thorn in their side, impossible to ignore but just as impossible to possess.

“At least I stole his cufflinks,” Rosaline says, letting them clink across the tabletop. Tiny golden cactuars with diamond eyes. The perfect trophy for such a waste of time and coin. “So how much did you lose?”

Lia makes a very impolite sound, and Al-Cid ignores her, preferring to count out Vidonia’s spoils instead, shuffling them through his fingers. The girl truly has a knack for victory. 

“You know,” Rosaline says, “you _can_ keep your cover without losing every gil in the royal coffers. Your Highness.”

“I have heard as much. Where is Dulcina?”

“Gathering information at the _Harmattan_ , for whatever that’s worth.” Vidonia says. “It’s not like we don’t know what’s going on out there, there’s just nothing we can do about it.”

It’s been little more than a week since Vayne Soldior became Lord Consul of Rabanastre, and all of Al-Cid’s Resistance connections have already dried up, anyone not killed or imprisoned during the ill-fated attack on the Palace no longer so certain that revolt is worth the trouble. It’s difficult to encourage an uprising, with the memory of the _Ifrit_ still hanging overhead, and Al-Cid never had much to offer them in the way of formal support to begin with. It had been a matter of causing annoyance more than any real change, throwing money in to keep the Archadians busy with chasing rebels rather than working to lock down their borders. 

He has all but abandoned the endeavor, useful enough with two years of instability but with Vayne Solidor in command - the man is a bastard, but an inconveniently competent one. Archadia has two faces, the soldier to tear down the world and the bureaucrat to remake it in an Imperial facade. Vayne keeps his faculty in the former somewhat hidden, but he is an open master of the latter.

Al-Cid can hardly blame Dalmasca, already with their fill of being caught in the middle. The best that he could ever offer them was a chance to rise up against Archadian tyranny, not so much the actions of a Lord Consul whose measures are mild, measured and even conciliatory. The Nabradians never really trusted him, and the Dalmascans even less so - for all Al-Cid had funneled money and resources to the rebels, he’d never gained entrance into their inner circle. 

He has often cursed himself for a fool, a stupid boy too young to take heed of the opportunities to accompany the ambassadors to Rabanastre, long before the war. He thought there’d been no reason to care for a princess bound to another, from a small country of no real consequence, but since her apparent death Princess Ashelia has been all but deified, and Dalmasca has proven to be of rather more than consequence. If only they had trusted him, if only he had found her before the Archadians did.

“So what do we do now?” Lia says. “Back to the border?”

“No.” Al-Cid shakes his head. “I believe the Queen will recall us to the West, to determine which of our own ships she ought to keep the closest watch on.”

“It’s not going to stop them.” Rosaline says.

Of course it won’t. Al-Cid knows the tale of what Raminas was hiding, although it’s difficult to believe he could have such a power and still allow his country to be overrun. It’s hard to believe the rumors, that the Archadians not only have the princess but the Dusk Shard as well - and once that becomes common knowledge, with the spectre of Nabudis still so fresh even the Queen will not be able to keep the fleets from moving

Al-Cid has met with his sisters and brothers in this very apartment, with their families in tow on holidays; for birthdays and engagements and excited announcements of a new addition to the line of Margrace. He cannot begin to count the cousins and nieces and nephews who are attached in some way to the Armada. For all his supposed skill at intrigue, Al-Cid does not know which of them will be in the most danger, or where the worst blow will fall. At the moment he lacks any interest in pretending his failings are at all charming, that he is anything other than impatient with himself. 

The door clicks open quietly, Dulcina entering the room, and she waits until it closes behind her to speak.

“Ondore has the princess. Ashelia of Dalmasca is no longer in Archadian hands.”

He has asked before, how she comes to know all she does, but Dulcina has told him he might either learn what she knows or how she knows it - and whatever her methods, she has never been wrong.

Al-Cid himself has pressed the point to Ondore that Bhujerba is strong enough to stand on its own, but the Marquis has always demanded more protection than Rozarria could give. No way for the Empire to help them with an open rebellion and still remain neutral against Archadia. It is quite a drastic move for him to suddenly give shelter to a rebel princess, and the bonds of family were never enough to move the Marquis before now. What has changed? What does he know, that they do not?

As if Al-Cid does not know the whispers at the edges of so many conversations, words too much like fairy tales to speak aloud - the Dusk Shard. The Dawn Shard. _The Sun-Cryst._

“He’ll need us to take the princess.” Lia says. “The Marquis has nowhere else to put her - she has to come to Rozarria.”

If he plays this correctly, it might very well prove his chance to make up for at least a few of the foolish oversights of his youth. It’s been said that Ashelia of Dalmasca is quite lovely indeed.

Al-Cid expects Dulcina to elaborate on her news, but instead the girl is reading over a short letter, and when he moves to ask her what it is she hands him the envelope instead. He is left staring at a very familiar crest that leaves him wondering just how many bottles of wine they’d actually managed to kill at the tables. The girls pass the note to each other as he tries and fails to look over their shoulders.

“How did you even get this?”

“Hand-delivered. The courier was certainly from his retinue.”

“It’s not real.”

“It’s meaningless even if it is.”

“I would say it’s a forgery, but what would be the point?”

Al-Cid listens to the girls argue back and forth, while the winding serpents on the seal seem to look back at him in a wordless challenge.

“So, we finally gain a formal acknowledgement from House Solidor? Fortune shines on us this day.” 

Strange as it is for the heir to the Archadian throne to be sent about like any other son, he has met Vayne out in the world, the both of them playing border games through the proxies of proxies. Vayne is aware of his interest in Dalmasca and in the Nethicite, but this is the first time he’s actually bothered to call him out.

Finally, the note is passed over to his hands, and what is already baffling makes even less sense the longer he looks. Al-Cid is simply not important enough for this sort of intrigue. Certainly, his death would not go unmourned or unavenged, were he to be drawn into some kind of trap and assassinated, but it would not stir the empire to any great foolish action. Archadia is nowhere near as clever as they believe themselves to be, if they wish this to tangle him in some intrigue, and by it implicate the Queen. His mother has always stood happily by to disavow all knowledge of his behavior, should a scandal threaten to tarnish her throne.

Yet what else is to be had in a letter from Lord Larsa Soldior?

The note is plain, not of their usual overelaborate style, and almost certainly penned in the young lord’s own hand. Larsa seeks a meeting, private and clandestine, to speak of peace. Of all things, to find an accord between their empires that might prevent the war. It seems he is finally stepping out of the shadow of his elder brother - and that a long shadow, indeed.

At the surface, it seems no less than a fool’s errand. Peace at this late stage is like to be all but impossible, too many men with too much to gain to bother with a reasoned response. Larsa Solidor is a child, even if he is the favorite of the court he wields no real power - but these are all the arguments of a man with something to lose. Al-Cid has always been meant to chase after subtle rumors and foolish possibilities. It is no less than the bidding of the Crown that he reach for the impossible. Even if the boy cannot meet his most ambitious goals, Larsa is still second in line for the Archadian throne and only a true fool would ignore such an opportunity. 

“On what neutral ground does our noble lord wish to meet?”

If the girls are at all surprised, it only lasts a moment, although they are far from enthusiastic.

Lia frowns. “He can’t possibly have the authority…”

“Well, then we have much in common.” Al-Cid says, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yeah I went with concept art Al-Cid with his four girls instead of the one we got in the game.


	3. Chapter 3

_Measure against eternity._

It is the motto of House Solidor, penned by a surprisingly prescient ancestor. Vayne has always admired it, not a boast or a challenge against other Houses but a warning to its members. He thinks that he has never felt its full meaning quite as well as now, with looming apocalypse in one hand and a city’s worth of paperwork in the other.

The reward for competence, his desk creaking as well as it ever did in Archades beneath the weight of purpose and expectation. The moogles have already been in and out with a small cart once this morning, and there will be a return trip before the day is out. 

The initial internal audit has come up rather as he expected, with a considerable amount of money missing and everyone pointing to everyone else. It’s rather amazing they thought they could get away with it all, considering the relative paucity of funds trickling into Dalmasca since the war. Still, it would be the sort of business that might have been overlooked entirely save that the new Lord Consul is also the Imperial heir, which makes this not only embezzlement but treason - punishable by death - which likely explains why two of the lords did not even bother showing up to the meeting, and are likely no longer in Dalmasca.

A shame he has so much to attend to at present - it would be quite amusing to play at politics with the Baron and his little band of merchant lords, when just addressing them each by name had been enough to make a few of them balk. It certainly seems to unnerve them, how much their new Lord Consul is already aware of the situation in Rabanastre. Taneli had proven himself a rather invaluable resource on that front, providing a counterpoint to their claims of what could and could not be done, and quite gleefully prepared to let the air out of every overinflated price set by the Marshals for their services. 

Vayne has let Cid have at him, to test the artificer’s true skill, and their first meeting had lasted long after sundown and wore out two servants rushing back and forth with books and paperwork. The path forward all depends on what Rabanastre is capable of building on its own, if they can produce the bulk of the raw materials Cid demands, and do so to Archadian standards. The Doctor says maybe. Taneli says absolutely, and has done his part to rally his allies ever since.

Vayne has allowed the Marshals an oversight committee - it will pacify them, and run check on the Rabanastrian artificers, just in case, though Vayne does not see further problems from that quarter. The Marshals are fighting the skybike races already, breathlessly opposed to what they claim will be nothing but a dozen high-speed missiles pointed at the palace itself, no matter how distant from Rabanastre the track is set. Vayne will see that bill pass, though, if he has to get behind it and shove.

In a smaller pile perch his missives from home, the Emperor’s official correspondences. Word of his impromptu venture out into the markets has reached His Grace - the first note came swiftly, chiding him for such rash and dangerous behavior, an unsubtle warning toward setting a good example for his brother. A reminder, one of several such he’s received so far, that Larsa should never have come to Dalmasca, that he has been long expected back home.

Vayne ignores each of them, certain the Emperor will not be surprised. Only one more routine, another game they play. His brother sails with the dawn, and that will have to satisfy.

A map falls to the floor as he moves for another stack of papers, and Vayne scoops it up, wondering if it is still current for being less than a day old. The latest movements of Rozarria’s fleets span its surface, of increasing interest with the border now nearly at the palace door. Vayne does not think they will try for Dalmasca, though perhaps not out of fear of retaliation so much as the strategic value of not destroying the homeland of a newly resurrected princess. The Queen must know of the girl’s revival by now, no doubt dispatching some subtle agent - perhaps her youngest, scraped once more from the floor of some unfortunate boudoir and shoved in the direction of the prize. 

The thought of Balthier squaring off against the formidable absurdity that is Al-Cid Margrace has Vayne smiling through the driest of accounts and ledgers. Margrace is a clever fool, quite adept at hiding his successes, with what seems an endless supply of the famed Rozarrian luck to keep him afloat when his skill seems fit to fail him. The two of them will no doubt be as friendly as a pair of coeurls in a tied-up sack. 

At the corner of his eye, a shadow flits past. A flutter of sound, and a tiny bird lands at the edge of his desk. Its head is cocked, a beady eye staring at him, or more likely, the better part of his breakfast, an orange cake currently holding down a pile of tax codes. Vayne has seen them around the palace, a common little creature but still a very pretty yellow, cautious and fearless in turn as it hops closer. He does not move, and it ventures closer still, chirping at him boldly, aware of his attention.

“You know, you remind me of someone.” He says softly, and the bird tenses slightly but does not fly away, the temptation of pastry obviously worth the risk of his company.

Larsa’s little foundling is exactly as she’d explained herself, Penelo a war orphan who works for Migelo in his shop and - according to random chatter - is quite popular with the local merchants, well-known for her cheerfulness and hard work. Enough to have them throwing questions back at his courier, wondering why the Lord Consul was asking after a girl who’d never caused anyone trouble.

Penelo lives as a pauper in Lowtown with the boy, Vaan, who also works for Migelo, just as she’d said. Amazingly, neither of them seem to have any ties to the rebellion up to the night of the fete.

Vayne is never quite certain if he believes in coincidence, but there is enough evidence to render her guiltless in this, at least. If only the girl were still in Rabanastre. Migelo had stammered through some explanation to his courier - Penelo had gone away, out in the desert visiting old friends and making new deals. He couldn’t reach her, or say when she might return. 

Which meant Balthier had scooped her up the minute Vayne had let her go, perhaps wanting information or simply obeying the demands of chivalry, rescuing a poor girl from his wicked machinations. He will keep her safe, and should the situation change, Vayne can easily have Penelo detained as a person of interest, sent off to any number of secluded estates in Archadia until all of this has played itself out.

The bird pecks a bit at the edge of the cake, hopping away from Vayne’s hand as he breaks a bit of it into more useful crumbs. It quickly returns to eat its fill and chirps at him once more, before flying back out of the window that’s really more like a missing wall, with a long, marble balustrade overlooking the large central courtyard. 

Larsa is out there in spite of the sun, and has been working with a young blue hatchling for most of the morning, getting it used to the feel of the bit and the bridle. He is of a limitless patience, no matter how many times the saddle is thrown off into the dust or the bird nips at his fingers. The grooms and stable boys have quickly learned to yell at the center of the flock and wait for his brother’s head to pop up from the middle. Larsa has also become quite popular with the maids and the serving girls, familiar giggles and whispers in his wake - and who knows what power plays are happening behind the scenes for who gets to set down his meals, or be the last to wish him good evening. 

Vayne had wondered whether his brother might have simply discovered a preference for Dalmascan girls, but all his smiles since have been nothing but polite. Only now and then has Vayne has caught him staring off into space, perched in any window in the palace with a glimpse over the far wall, into the city. A bit strange, that Larsa has not tried to sneak out, has not even complained about his confinement. Instead, there is only the occasional despondent sigh, his brother spending any time he’s not in the stables idly turning the pages on one of the books of Dalmascan history from the palace’s own libraries. 

He doesn’t know what’s more amusing - his brother’s utterly besotted state or that he seems to think no one else has noticed.

\---------------------------

The slight shuffle of footsteps announces Cid a few moments before he appears, raising a hand full of papers in his direction in greeting, Vayne shaking an equal share back as his reply. 

The Doctor has always stretched the capacity of ‘I’ll be right there,’ though here in Rabanastre he lacks any proper lab to disappear into, little on the palace grounds to tempt him and too much security required to move elsewhere with ease. Despite abandoning both jacket and waistcoat he remains thoroughly unenthralled by the desert climate, seeking shelter in any cool alcove. Vayne has tried to accommodate him, the air chilled in both Cid’s quarters and this study to what is almost bitter, though he still collapses into the nearest chair with a look of resigned dismay.

“There is not enough ice magicite in the _world_.”

“You could ask them to hang the sun a bit higher.”

“You’re the Consul. Pass a law.” Cid grumbles, and it’s surprising he reaches for the water pitcher and actually bothers with the glass, instead of just pouring it directly over his head.

“The Senate’s repealed Draklor’s quarterly increase. I believe I’ll ask for it back, as part of the initial reparations for Dalmasca.”

The moment he’d known he was to leave Archades, Vayne had seeded his work with projects specifically for the Senate to waste their time dismantling. It will buy perhaps half a year, before they make their first real strike at Draklor itself, but by then… well, one way or another they will likely be playing an entirely different game.

Cid does not answer him, or break the growing silence, and there is little point in asking what is wrong. They have not spoken of Vayne’s little revelation since that first day, though no doubt it weighs as heavily on his mind. Ashelia of Dalmasca will trust her uncle, the kindly Marquis of Bhujerba. She believes Vayne is the only liar she needs to tear from a stolen throne, the only villain to defeat - thank all the gods that Balthier knows better.

“What do you suppose they want? The final victory of the Occuria.” Cid finally says, quietly. “Venat never spoke on it.”

“I do not flatter myself with thinking I might know the answer. Whatever their desire, we are all no more than sheep to be culled, and it has been so for a very long time.”

Vayne wonders more why Venat had shifted sides in the first place. Without the Nethicite, things would likely have proceeded to roughly the same end - eventually they would have taken Dalmasca, even Nabudis may have been lost - but with only the Princess to learn of her destiny. If it had not been her, then perhaps her child, or an entirely new heir to their ambitions - the Occuria could certainly wait as long as it required, with the rest of the world shuffling along in blind ignorance. Venat would have shared in that great victory - what had swayed its judgement so?

“There is, of course, the matter of the treaty blade. I wish Raithwall had thought to mention that. If the sword I created shattered at Nabudis, another of its make will prove equally useless, and even at the best of Venat’s instruction I could not improve upon it. There is little use in finding the Sun-Cryst if we cannot rid ourselves of it.”

“The Sword of Kings is yet in the world, is is not?”

“Yes, but as well hidden as it ever was, and we now lack any sort of guide.” Cid chuckles. “Or mayhap the Occuria will simply hand it over, if the girl should ask?”

“Who knows? I would hope Her Highness might demand some proof of confidence, before giving herself over fully to their cause. We must be ready, and patient, and see what comes of it.”

“You don’t have time for patience.”

An unexpected tightness, almost anger in Cid’s voice, though his eyes are still firmly fixed on his notes.

“Have I offended you somehow, Doctor?”

“It is _real_ , the Sun-Cryst. I have to keep reminding myself - I hardly thought you believed me, for years. I didn’t truly believe it myself. The power to change the world - and you do not seem all that concerned in obtaining the key to its possession.”

“A key that would gladly undo us all.”

“-and if it were not her choice to make?”

Ah, now it becomes clear. No, Cid. No, not this. Not for him. 

“You would see me make a bid for godhood?”

“I would see you _live_ , Vayne.” Cid says softly. “I am not as quick to be done with you as you are to quit the world.”

As if Vayne wishes to die. As if that is at all the point.

“I am no innocent, to wonder at my fate.” He says. “I admit, it is inopportune, but it is hardly _unfair_.”

“Nonsense.” Cid says, with more force than anyone has ever spent in his defense. Vayne is still amazed that he is not alone in this, when he had assumed it would certainly be so. Maybe this is how it had been for Venat, some imperceptible shift, the unexpected understanding it did not wish to deny. One day when it realized it had come to care more than it should for the creatures under its watch, and that the price of victory was higher than it could pay.

“If I think for a moment to gamble for my life against the world, we will lose _everything_. If I clutch and grab for every breath - you have seen that path, you know where it ends. It sits on the throne even now. Do not ask me to be that, Doctor. I cannot.”

Cid knows. He is of Archades, he has seen ambition and desperation and absurd undoings - but he is also every inch as stubborn as his pirate son. Vayne will have to take care, lest the Doctor risk himself on some reckless plan of his own.

“I have not given up on you yet.”

Vayne smiles. “Foolish old man.”

“Idiot boy.”

\-------------------------------

The room is quiet enough for the Judge Magister’s approach to carry easily, and Vayne swears he can hear the coiled anger in each step. In truth, he has never known Gabranth to be otherwise, and he does not think it changes so much when the Judge Magister is out of his presence. A glance outside reveals Larsa still hard at work, close enough to keep an eye on - which means Gabranth has found out about Nalbina.

The man moves with swift precision, unnervingly fast, not at all encumbered by his armor. Vayne is always reminded of one of Cid’s scientific marvels, a spark along the right seam of stone underground leading to a wildfire that never shows itself. On the surface, all is calm, but beneath there is only an endless molten roar. 

“I would speak with you, Lord Consul.”

It is laughably far from a request.

“Doctor, if you would give us a moment?”

Cid rolls his eyes, gathering the papers strewn around him as he gets up slowly from the chair. The Judge Magister keeps his eyes forward, and says nothing. Gabranth believes the Doctor is a dangerous lunatic. Cid is certain the Judge would run him through without the slightest hesitation. Vayne thinks one of these is slightly more true than the other. 

The door shuts behind him, and the only sound that remains is the distant plinking of water in the fountain, and Larsa whistling out a command, or laughing when it does not go as planned. Vayne sees no reason to even attempt at politeness.

“You did not tell me.” Gabranth says.

“It seems I did not need to.”

For a moment, he wonders if the Judge Magister is going to punch his desk - or through it.

“Send me after him.” 

“You already have your duty, Gabranth. This is not it.”

Vayne swears he can almost hear the metal plate shiver with the force of the Judge Magister’s rage.

“He will ruin you.”

“You believe he will speak?” Vayne says. “And say what? Who will listen? The only ones who do not know exactly what took place are those who profit from their ignorance. An example was made of Basch fon Rosenberg, and the world let it happen.”

He reminds himself to pen the Marquis a thank-you note, for looking after Larsa during his visit. He does not doubt Ondore knows how closely he is being watched, but a gracious reminder costs little more than time.

“The people…”

“The people of Dalmasca will do as the people are told to do. Tragic though it may be, a man’s morals rarely extend further than his own comforts.”  
It is not the whole truth of the matter, but it serves better for the Judge Magister to believe Vayne at the fool’s edge of arrogance.

“You promised me-“

“Gabranth, you are as vigilant as ten men, and yet you lost Larsa in Bhujerba.” Vayne lets his voice fall with the force of a whip crack, to shatter the Judge’s protest to dust. “Who would you have me set in your place? Bergan? Drace? Oh certainly, she would be the first to fall on her sword in disgrace, which would only deny me the small satisfaction of a proper punishment.”

He has considered it, that this might be asking too much of the Judge Magister’s obedience - but the fact that Gabranth is here and asking permission and not already hunting the Princess and her companions down is proof enough of where his true loyalties lie, and that Vayne had not been wrong in his choice all those years ago.

“Fon Rosenberg lives as a hunted man. Friendless, surrounded by all the reminders of his failure, with his only allies those who will use them for their own gain. The only paths before him are all likely to end in an unmarked grave - at best. I would hardly say he is free.”

“The situation will only grow more dangerous by the day.”

“Which is why you will stay exactly where you are. Are we understood, Gabranth?”

“… yes, your Grace.”

\--------------------------------

“Oh, there you are!”

Larsa, windburned and sun-swept, has found his way to their window. A bit of clambering over the decorative carvings, and he’s quickly inside and pouring himself a glass of water for each hand. As yet, there is no formal court for him to impress, hence his rolled-up pants and half-unbuttoned shirt, not to mention the sandals on his feet, likely borrowed from one of the stablehands. Give him another week, and Larsa would likely be indistinguishable from the next desert nomad.

“You’re still not cross with him about Bhujerba, are you, Lord Brother?”

“No,” Vayne says, “I am quite content to keep that blame with you.”

“Good.” Larsa half-collapses in the chair Cid had quit, and tips his head back, gazing at the Judge Magister with a perfect, trusting innocence. “I hope I did not interrupt.”

“Of course not, milord.” Gabranth says, retreating without another word to the far side of the room. Unlikely they will have the opportunity to speak further, though Vayne has said all that he needs to, and at least for the short-term it seems the Judge Magister is, if not content, then at least willing to follow orders. Cid opens the door a few moments later, and quickly reestablishes himself at an empty side-table nearby.

Vayne turns his attention back to Larsa. “Well, what is your verdict?

“The palace flock is more diverse than I expected, and they keep quite impressive records. I believe a few of the birds are of Nabradian royal stock, which would make their breeding lines all but invaluable, though I haven’t had as much time as I would like to-“

“I am sure room can be made for you to take your favorites along. Provided you leave me with something to ride.”

It ought to make Larsa happy, but Vayne is not so surprised when he only nods, with the distant expression that has become his recent favorite. 

“You seem preoccupied, brother. Is something amiss?”

Vayne could state it outright, but it is far more amusing to watch his brother struggle to bring the question out, all his usual skill with language utterly failing him now.

“Have you ever… I mean… if one wished to give a gift… not out of obligation, but to show one’s esteem. I mean, that is…”

“Airship.” Cid says, nonplussed as they stare at him. “What? It works.”

“I have not… I suppose I should ask to see what sorts of gifts they give here in the city. Or perhaps… I do not wish it to be common, or she shall think I spent no time at all considering it. But… our flowers would wilt to nothing here, and confections melt and… maybe I am better off not making a fool of myself.”

Larsa throws an arm over his eyes with all the weight of the world his age can provide, long enough for Cid to grin at Vayne over his shoulder. Let the rest of the world have their perfect prince, he will gladly take this brother as his own.

“I might suggest a visit to Archadia, if the lady in question lives abroad.” He offers. “Certainly there are enough diversions there to choose from. Perhaps a trip to the theatre, or the ballet? A performance from the Royal Archadian Corps might show your esteem - that is, if this mystery woman is fond of dancing.” 

Larsa frowns at him, and Vayne looks back serenely, and he is just fast enough to catch the elaborately embroidered cushion aimed at his head.

“You do not need to me to tell you what you already know.” Larsa says. “It is not even as if I wish… or that I think she would wish… and it is not… I have already considered two-dozen arguments for why any such thinking would be _ill-advised_.”

He grinds the words out with difficulty - and there it is, the Solidor in him. Intolerant of idiocy for the sake of custom, of being denied for no better reason than the approval of others. He does not need the approval of others, it has never been their way to be defined by the world.

“The Court is unfond of outsiders, that is true.” Vayne says. “Of course, they are just as often to dislike their neighbors. Attempting to please them is at best a necessary folly - but the throne of Archadia stands ever in the sun.”

“Is that why you have never married?”

Their eldest brother - the first son, the heir - he had a wife, then a widow. Now a woman long remarried, living quietly with her family far away from Archades. Thankfully, neither of his brothers had produced any heirs, or perhaps Vayne might have been expected to deal with them as well.

“I have never found anyone whom I would wish to subject to my endless fits of pique.”

Cid snorts softly from the corner.

“Penelo is…" Larsa searches for just the right word. "I have never met a girl like her, not in all the world. Her strength, her courage - she is so… bright. She _shines_. I believe I could learn a great deal from her, about this land and its people. I am certain of it, and… I have no expectations, otherwise.”

If the girl does not love him yet, Vayne gives it another two meetings, maybe three at most. A matter of some difficulty, with Larsa in Archades, a thousand miles distant, but once she has taken up work in the palace, Vayne might petition on his brother’s behalf.

“You care for her.”

Larsa straightens, shoulders set with all the determination of a House that has outlived nations.

“I want to protect her. I wish… I wish to see her smile, always.”

“You are asking, then, if I have some objection?”

He is, though Larsa does not wish to say it aloud. He already knows what Vayne might argue, what any other man would say in his place. The girl has no title, no legacy - no _money_ , barely a person at all in the eyes of Archadia’s most noble. Larsa is a fool for even considering her a friend, let alone more, and he shouldn’t need an argument to persuade him against such folly. Vayne has met the girl, though, and Penelo is neither small nor common. The great Houses have never seen him rush to their defense, and he is certainly not going to start here.

“Does she make you happy?”

Larsa blushes, just a little, and glances away, and nods.

“Then what objection could I have?”

His brother’s smile is hope. It is purpose. Everything in the world worth saving, all that is worthy and good in the curve of one throwaway grin. Vayne is not going to die, he will not diminish until he is certain that nothing remains to threaten what must be. Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor. 

Vayne plays the noble stoic with Cid, and yet here in these quiet moments he finds himself bargaining like any other fool, desperate to wrest a few more moments from indifferent fates. Gods, that he might live to see his brother crowned.

Time passes, Larsa with a book and Cid with his work, Gabranth standing silent vigil in the corner. Soon enough, his brother is napping in his chair, the book large enough to be a half-decent blanket, and even Cid laid low by the heat, head on his arms and snoring slightly. The Doctor will regret it when he wakes, not the most comfortable choice, but for the moment Vayne keeps quiet - he is responsible for too many of the man’s sleepless nights to begrudge him now.

Vayne continues on through the interminable paperwork. Loren has proven himself every bit the competent bureaucrat, with a full set of dossiers at Vayne’s disposal on those rebels currently in the limbo of Nalbina, the innocent and the guilty both, though it is little surprise that Loren seems to think there are more of the former. Vayne flips through an impressive amount of evidence, signed testimonies and reports from the families of those arrested claiming their innocence, perhaps with a bit more detail than is purely necessary. 

It certainly earned Loren no love from the Judges to be so soft-hearted, but it will prove useful now. He signs half the pardons Loren has suggested - any more and there will certainly be an uproar, though if he waits a week or two he can dispatch with the rest while everyone is busy shouting over the next great scandal.

Vayne has been thinking on this next move ever since he met Taneli, and the shipwright spoke of the loss of Nalbina, of Rasler’s death and the mistakes that led to it. There is little confidence in the power of this would-be Queen, and Vayne can do some work there. He will choose one more man from those in Loren’s pile - a guilty man, as close to the Princess as he can find, and Vayne will free him and send him out with a note, to find its way to Ashelia and what is left of her advisors. 

An offer of parlay, a kingdom ready for her rule if she will only hold fast with the Empire against Rozarria. He has no doubt the Princess will not accept - that she would die rather than accept - but perhaps there are those around her who might reconsider. Vayne has no pretense of dignity, not in this, not with all there is to lose. He will beg her, if it comes to it, on his knees with his throat bared for her blade. He will be kind, if she is compliant, or if he must Vayne will strip her of every support, turn every ally against her until she has nothing left but to look to him for mercy.

Larsa shifts a little in his sleep, covered in dust, rumpled and smelling of bird and perfect. He is young yet, his hair hanging long enough to soften his features further, but he will quite soon be of age. A great celebration in Archades, they are no doubt already starting to make the arrangements.

_Do you remember it, Gramis? The year I turned sixteen?_

He never thought there could be a year to match it, and yet here they are.


	4. Chapter 4

“I did not know the viera were thieves.”

It’s the first thing that Ashelia of Dalmasca says to her. The only thing, in a moment’s pause beneath the streets of Rabanastre, and she does not wait for a reply. Many humes believe viera cannot lie, though Fran can tangle truths as well as any other. Truly, it is not a skill of much use in the Wood, and Fran thinks this princess might have been happier had she been born to that world instead of this one.

In Ashelia’s gaze and her defiance and all the silence that follows, Fran sees nothing so clearly as Jote at her most unsure. It reminds her of the moment that her sister realized she had no intention of joining the Elders, that she meant meant to quit the Wood entire. A vast silence had spilled out between them then, like a river rushing over its banks, destroying any sign of what had been before. An anger as punishing to one who carried it as to its target. Ashelia sits in that same pale space now, distant and untouchable.

Jote was caring, and kind in her quiet way, but could not allow herself to show weakness. Responsibility had made her even more cautious and stern. She could not suffer the thought of failure, as this princess cannot, and though Ashelia had been ready to risk herself for their sake in Rabanastre, she does not know how to be strong without being cold. Fran would not take offense, even if it weren’t so obvious that the girl judges no one as harshly as herself.

Eryut had little use for princesses or queens, but Fran understands loyalty and fealty, what it is beyond even honor that keeps Basch fon Ronsenberg here, when Ashelia has said as little to him, and will not look him in the eye. His long imprisonment had not parted him from his wits or his skills, but when the fighting ends he keeps to long silences, deferent and unfailingly polite when not lost in his own thoughts. He no longer smells of stone or small, dark spaces - only very faintly of blood, some slight nick from shaving away two years with trembling hands. 

The room they have settled in is quite like one of Balthier’s oft-spoken stages, some odd and comic farce with all the scripts cast aside. A grand estate in some distant past, now a mansion quietly crumbling away on one of Bhujerba’s lesser islands, no doubt often used for the Marquis’ less exemplary business. Much of the furniture has been stripped from the lesser rooms, with cracks in the windowpanes and spiderwebs catching dust on the shelves, all the gardens well overgrown. No sign of servants, but the room had been awaiting their arrival, the wide central table well-stocked with provisions. Balthier immediately uncorked the best bottle he could find, lounging back in the most comfortable chair with the occasional comment about a reward she know he never expects to see.

Nothing had gone as planned even by their usual, generous definition of plan, and it remains to be seen what will happen next, this strange tale of improvising players bound by nothing but a tangle of common cause.

Balthier would prefer not to be here at all. It speaks in every line of his body beneath the feigned indifference. It is rarely comfortable for a sky pirate to be an invited guest, let alone waiting on a man like the Marquis. Ondore is no ally of Archadia or Rozarria but that hardly puts him on their side.

“You and Basch-“ Vaan says from around a mouthful of meat, until Penelo punches him on the shoulder and he pauses long enough to swallow. “You’ve known each other a long time, right?”

The boy is the only one of them who seems not to notice the tension in the air, or he does and doesn’t care, used to being the interloper that must take what he can while it’s there. Vossler nods - he seems a serious sort of man, though not unkind. Weary, as they all certainly must be.

“We’ve been allies since before you were born.” He turns to Balthier. “I understand that I have you to thank for his rescue, sky pirate. I am in your debt.”

Balthier shrugs. “My curiosity got the better of me, though with a Judge Magister for an enemy, that cage yet might prove the safer place.”

It had been a satisfying moment, two lost knights of a lost kingdom unexpectedly reunited, though Ashelia had gone stiff and still when Basch stepped into the room, with her hands in tight fists, fingers digging against her palms, her voice regal and unyielding as any proclamation of the kings of old. 

“You didn’t kill my father."

Basch met her eyes without flinching, for a long, deliberate moment before looking to the floor. “Yet I failed to protect him.”

“As you failed to protect my husband.”

“Yes.”

Vossler had done his best to protest on both ends of that argument, to seemingly little good. Only Vaan had ever believed Basch to be truly guilty, and even then not for long, his pent-up fury quickly burning out with no fuel to catch the flame. Basch had accepted it all without protest, the boy’s rebuke and his apology, the princess’ judgment and her silence. As he’d gone to one knee and sworn an oath that had never been broken in the first place.

Basch is a man with a core of steel, and she in desperate need of such steadfast loyalty - yet here they are, and Ashelia will not look at him, let alone give him any measure of peace.

“You never knew he had a brother?” Balthier asks, and Vossler shakes his head. Basch clears his throat, his voice still rough after so much time in isolation.

“I believed him dead, many years ago - just after I had left for Rabanastre. If I had known… there was word, of course, of a Gabranth in the court, but our mother had many brothers and sisters who shared the name. Noah and I were half of Landis blood, barely noble by the standards of Archadia. I had never imagined that he might, I never thought… and I still do not understand why.”

“Choose the proper betrayal, and stand at the right hand of the heir to the throne.” Balthier suggests.

Basch barely nods. “It is as you say.”

The footsteps moving down the hall toward them are from but one man, unarmored. Balthier has learned to take his cues from Fran in this - when she glances to the door his eyes follow hers, but she has not tensed and so he keeps his hand from his pistol, preferring a swig of wine as the Marquis Ondore steps into the room.

“… Uncle Halim?”

It cannot be what Ashelia intends, the slight, startled waver in her voice, the way she is up and out of her chair but not quite moving toward him. Balthier does not trust the Marquis, indeed there is little reason to - but Fran thinks that at least for one moment he is just a man, with a niece he had not ever expected to see alive. Ondore goes to her without hesitation, his hands around hers, as close to an unguarded moment as he may be capable of.

“Your Majesty. It is good to see you safe.”

After a moment, he steps away, taking his seat at the head of the table - this is far more than a reunion, after all. His eyes barely catch on Fran, and Balthier says nothing and so it seems they are to be strangers to each other, only sky pirates riding a fair coincidence to the hope of a payout. The Marquis plays his cards so close to his chest one could easily miss he is even in the game.

“We did not know who to trust,” Ashelia says, “and there were those who counseled that you and the Empire…”

Ondore nods. “A treacherous time for us all, and it may only become more so. I have heard on authority that Archadia now holds the Dusk Shard.”

No malice in it, no blame, but the princess flinches anyway.

“The demand for Bhujerba’s magicite is greater than ever, and more and more it goes to a single purpose.” Ondore continues. “Archades will not rest in her desire for dominion over all. Even sailing the _Alexander_ through the jagd only raises their ambitions. Now that they yet again hold one of the Dynast-King’s treasures…”

“You believe they will try to weaponize the Nethicite?” Vossler says.

“For all we know, Nabudis may have been their first attempt.” The Marquis says. “We cannot say for certain what happened there, or by whose hand that blow was struck. But with a new Shard to study as they will… if Archadia can manufacture that power, if they can build more Shards like that of their own…”

“We must stop them.” Ashelia says. “Bhujerba must stand with us now, against the Empire!”

Ondore only steeples his fingers together, calm and diplomatic and well used to saying things people do not want to hear.

“I do not mean to seem impolitic, but you have no army, Highness…”

“The Resistance-“

“Lies broken and scattered across Nalbina’s dungeons, and beyond.”

“We will try again.” The princess vows, undaunted, but this time it’s Vossler who shakes his head.

“With another man as Lord Consul, perhaps - but not Vayne Soldior. The confidence of our allies is badly shaken, my lady - no one wants to stand against him. We nearly lost everything in our attack on the palace - and if you had disappeared beyond Archadia’s borders there would have been no hope.”

“I am not afraid of Vayne Solidor.” Ashelia says scornfully.

“It is a matter of leverage, Highness, more than courage.” Ondore says. “As far as the world knows, you are gone and buried these two years. It would take no less than a proclamation from the Gran Kiltias himself, with proof of your birthright to reclaim your throne - far more than my simple word alone can provide.” He pushes on, before she can protest. “You may yet have some avenues of support, even as you are now - though perhaps not as you expected to find them.”

Ondore means Rozarria, that much is clear. He means political alliances instead of direct insurrection and in time, with the right words in the right ears, likely a marriage as well, the Queen with a few unmatched heirs remaining. Vossler looks particularly grim and quiet at this, as if it were more than his fears of Archadia that kept him from seeking out the Marquis’ aid sooner. 

“I will not deliver Rabanastre from the claws of one empire, only to have it snatched up by another.” Ashelia says quietly, and levels her gaze at Balthier again. “I heard you were with Vayne’s brother in Bhujerba’s mines. If you had found him out sooner, that might have proved leverage enough.”

Balthier laughs at that, and it would not be the first that Fran has seen him talk his way into a beating, though the princess manages to restrain herself, fists no doubt white-knuckled beneath the table. 

“Do you believe me so incapable, that I could not detain a child?”

“I certainly believe you could, majesty, as I believe the Marquis can tell you what happens to those men who have tried to make a pawn of Larsa Solidor. Better that fate denied you the chance to try. We were all of us very fortunate that nothing happened to that boy.”

“He speaks the truth, Highness.” Ondore says, attempting to calm her. “It would be… unwise to consider the young lord in such a manner, though perhaps we do not need to discount him entirely. I believe at least one of your party has spent quite some time in his company.”

It takes Penelo a moment to realize the Marquis is speaking to her, and when she does her eyes widen in rather comic dismay.

“I… er, yes, milord. Some. He brought me back to Dalmasca,” she smiles, “although I think I was mostly a convenient excuse, so that he could visit Rabanastre. The Lord Consul was there and we… we shared a meal. He wished to know about the city.”

“You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” Vaan says, and Penelo shrugs, obviously still baffled that it had happened at all, let alone that the Lord Consul might believe she had any useful information.

“He likely wanted to ensure you weren’t set on his brother as a spy, I imagine.” Balthier says, and Penelo blanches slightly, as if that particular doom hadn’t yet crossed her mind.

“He… he gave me a pardon, for Vaan.” The boy snorts, and Penelo glares back. “I didn’t ask for one, I didn’t think... I was too busy trying to explain that you weren’t there to _murder him_ , and then the Doctor-“

It’s the first that Balthier betrays his lie of indifference, that one word enough to make him startle upright, though there is still no more than mild interest in his tone. “Doctor? Cidolfus Bunansa was with you in Rabanastre?”

Penelo nods.

The Marquis is equally surprised. Doctor Cid rarely ventures beyond the confines of the labs, too valuable to risk in Dalmasca were it not for some very good reason.

“Whatever Vayne is planning for Dalmasca, I will stop him.” Ashelia says. “If none will aid me, I will go alone.”

“You must have patience, Highness.” Ondore says. “Now that you are here, and safe, we have options and opportunity both, but you must give it time.”

“We don’t _have_ time, Uncle!”

“Let me see this pardon of yours.” Vossler says, and Penelo nods, unrolling the thick parchment to reveal what is certainly an official Archadian document, stupidly ornate. She glances at Balthier, who nods very slightly - yes, that is indeed Vayne’s own hand. Vossler studies it for a long moment before speaking.

“There has been word, Highness, that the Lord Consul has also pardoned some of those in Nalbina who were not tied to our cause, innocent men swept up in the chaos. Our informants say he has shown… considerable restraint in his actions thus far. He did not come down on the city as he might have, punishing them for our actions. Compared to those who came before, I have heard it said that it was… fortunate he was there.”

“It changes nothing.” Ashelia says sharply, enough to make him wince slightly but he does not relent.

“It shows, perhaps, that he is not a man wholly without sense - a creature of cold logic, even if there is no heart in him. If we did have some leverage, as the Marquis suggests, perhaps… perhaps he might even be convinced to make a deal.”

“As he dealt with my father?” The princess says, spearing that argument through the heart. Vossler does not respond. 

Ondore coughs lightly, the sound of his chair sliding across the stones breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“I fear I must leave you for now, or else risk my absence noted. I have had rooms prepared here, until more suitable arrangements can be made.” Ondore looks to Balthier, finally willing to at least admit he exists. “I will also have a proper reward for your services. Until then, please enjoy my hospitality, and my gratitude.”

The Marquis lies so politely it might as well be the truth, and there is little more to be said, with his less-than-subtle hook firmly cast. Ondore knows what will happen next. Balthier knew it before they even stepped into this room. Only the princess has yet to realize the path he has set before her, the only choice she can bear to make.

\----------------------------------------------

Away from the _Strahl_ , Balthier has somewhat fewer outlets for his frustration, and so Fran is unsurprised to see him taking apart his pistol for the third time since Nalbina, attempting to pry the last whispers of grit from the mechanisms. The wallpaper is a blue so faded that it nearly looks white, with tall windows and a vast view of the twisted gardens that sets Fran at ease despite herself, and she doubts it is a coincidence.

“The Marquis has a keen eye for detail.”

“He wagered some on the single bed - though t’would not be the first you left me on the floor.”

“You had fleas.” All the more impressive, when she was the one with fur. 

“Not one of my finer moments, I admit.” Balthier grins, though it does not reach his eyes. “Nor is this.”

Fran stands behind him, one hand on his shoulder and her claws raking lightly through his hair, a gesture of comfort she has found more use for as of late, though this feels the first since Rabanastre that they have managed to pause for breath.

“Will it trouble you to relinquish your room to a princess?” Balthier says. “I doubt she cares much for sharing.”

“You believe she will go for the Strahl tonight?”

“I’m surprised her Highness did not hold us at sword point. Ondore all but loosed the girl like a hunting hound.” 

Spread out on the table are a set of maps, reading material while he works. Fran has seen them more than once in their time together - the tomb of the Dynast-King. Various sketches of Raithwall’s final resting place, though she wonders at the accuracy of any map for a place that no one can enter.

“Proof of her identity? Truly? And I thought him a subtle man.” The leash on Balthier’s anger is slipping, the false indifference entirely gone. “Who even knows the worth of his word, as he never sees fit to risk it. Why bother, when she intends to fight the war on her own. As if it ever mattered that she lived at all. Let us see what the holy men of Bur-Omisace and their proclamations have to match the _Alexander_ blow for blow.”

He is as tense as a man waiting for the axe to fall, and Fran can offer little counsel beyond her quiet support. It seems enough for now, as his voice gentles, a hand rising to stroke her arm. “What have you heard that is worth the sharing?”

Fran is not an intentional spy, though her long ears are hardly for show. Usually she chooses to ignore much of what is overheard, though this is not the time to deign to privacy. It had been worth her while to wander the halls, the princess locked away in her own solitary contemplation but her knights preferring the company of a bottle and two years of lost conversation.

“Vossler has doubts. He fears what is to come, and tells Basch this was never his battle to win. He has never had the mind for cunning nor the heart to lead this rebellion. The years have weighed heavily on him, in this duty. He loves the princess, but he fears what this has made of her.” 

“He is a fool to think he can ever barter with Vayne, but I understand the temptation. Who knows how much of the resistance funds came from Bhujerba in some fashion? Ondore will end all that - he wishes for the match with Rozarria, now that Ashelia is proved alive. Such an alliance would leave the Marquis in a very fine position, and Dalmasca’s sovereignty certainly puts no fresh coin in his pocket.” Balthier frowns. “He wants the Dawn Shard even more, though, and all the better that the princess take it upon herself to crack the crypt for him. I understand it now, he believes he will reverse engineer it, he thinks that is how they did it at Draklor. The nightmare of an Imperial stockpile is nothing more than the desire for his own.”

“Is it possible? Could they create such a thing?”

Balthier’s stillness speaks volumes, and Fran tries to imagine another Nabudis, or a dozen, and how long it would take before she could not even walk upon the earth. 

“They will try. They will certainly try. Did you learn aught else?”

“Vossler wonders if Vaan and Penelo would be better off elsewhere. He does not think they are safe here.”

“Nowhere is safe.” Balthier says. “Vayne Solidor knows them by name now, there is no pardon that can alter that - and the boy has a poor habit of making himself known.”

It had been, perhaps, slightly counterproductive for Vaan to begin his professional career as a thief by demanding they call him by name. Balthier is still not quite over that.

“It is right that we were there, to free Basch from that place, whatever else may come of it.” Fran says. “It was good to hear them together, speaking of the past like old friends.”

“Like brothers, though perhaps that is not the best comparison for fon Ronsenberg at present. I am glad that he is well, however. After all that time in Nalbina, I feared he might be past repair.”

“He has his duty to shield him.” Fran says, and Balthier makes a soft, considering sound. 

“I remember what that was.”

“… and now?” Fran chides, and Balthier tips his head back to smile at her. “Did you know of him then, in Archadia?”

“Gabranth?” Balthier frowns thoughtfully. “I doubt there are any in Archades who could claim to know his mind. Hardly a man for idle chatter. I could give you the conversations I heard him take part in on one hand, with enough fingers left over to order a round for the table. He was a terror in the ring, but quick enough to yield - he would not strike a man unprepared, and always gave quarter. Not the man I would choose for such treachery. Gabranth was sponsored by Drace’s house, and she is not the kind to waste time on ruthless men. I never marked any great patriotic fervor in him, or ambition. The power of a Judge Magister is as much in legacy and connections - he must have known how little the title alone would favor him.”

Fran has wondered now and then, what it looks like when Balthier thinks about the Empire, sifting through countless invisible patterns of history and obligation. 

“I know the sort of man to betray his own for power, for wealth and glory. But does that man truly bother to pay courtesy calls to the dead? Fon Ronsenberg was as good as buried, yet Gabranth had not forgotten him. There is more to this than Basch is telling.”

The soft knock at the door surprises both of them - even Fran had not heard it, though as she cants her head in the direction of the door it is soon clear why. A graceful shifting of weight, the slight, nervous tap of one toe against the floor as she raises a hand to knock again - Vaan had said Penelo was very light on her feet.

“Do come in.” Balthier calls, and the door slowly, carefully edges open, the girl peeking inside only to freeze when she catches sight of Fran. A not uncommon reaction among humes, Fran has always found it rather amusing, and does her best to look unthreatening even as her nose twitches and a slight spike of discomfort settles in behind her eyes and she realizes that this girl is far more dangerous than she knows.

Fran does not have to look to know that Balthier’s smile is warm and rich as brandy in firelight, and she drops her hand to the back of his neck, flexing her claws ever so slightly in warning as he pretends not to notice. He does not break hearts on purpose, but not all women come with armor. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt…” Penelo says carefully.

“I cannot imagine a more welcome one.” It’s difficult to keep from rolling her eyes when he is like this, and Fran steps away rather than risk upending his dashing pirate image, moving to a side table where her weapons lie. He is not the only one to leave Nalbina in some disarray - her blades need sharpening, and the fletching mended on a few unlucky arrows.

“I wanted to return this,” Penelo says, holding out Balthier’s handkerchief, “and say thank you, once more. I don’t think I would have seen Vaan again, if it weren’t for you.”

“I shall keep it close to my heart,” Balthier says, and Fran does roll her eyes this time. She has witnessed Balthier flirt with himself in a mirror, she has _seen_ it. “Fortunately, your friend is tougher than he looks, and I believe I could say the same for you. I owe you an apology. It was truly a disgrace, that you might come to harm on my account.”

“Oh, no… it wasn’t…” Penelo pauses, as if knowing she ought not to ask but unable to stop herself. “It seems there are many people who are angry at you.”

Balthier laughs. “You grow used to it, by the fifth or sixth bounty. Truly though, if I had known the path would lead you to Vayne Soldior…”

“He wasn’t that bad.” Penelo blurts, as if the words have been pent-up for too long. She seems terribly afraid of being overheard even with the door closed behind them, glancing from Fran to Balthier in turn. It is true the words edge dangerously close to treason, especially in the company she now finds herself, yet it seems Penelo cannot help but speak. Quite interesting, and Balthier is equally intrigued.

“He didn’t… I mean, I understand what he’s done. I was scared of him, and I believe it, that Her Highness… and Lord Basch, and that means that Reks, that he…” Penelo shakes her head quickly. “Please, forget I said anything.”

“Vayne Solidor is a master at his art. Even the Marquis is loathe to confront him directly. Forgive me for being impolite, but he had little to lose in courting your good opinion. What matters is that you have faced down the serpent and survived. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

“I just… I don’t understand. Larsa cares so much about everything, and everyone. He told me the purpose of his house was to do good for others, to put them before himself. I think he may be the kindest boy I’ve ever met - but he loves his brother, too, and believes in him. I just don’t see how both can be true.”

Balthier pauses for a long moment, this no longer the easy conversation it had been at the start. Fran wonders if he will change the subject, before he finally speaks again.

“I can do no more than relate a tale to you, of the only man who ever attempted to assassinate Larsa Solidor.” 

Penelo pales, but waits for him to continue.

“At the time Vayne was little more than twenty, with already three or four fair attempts on his life. Larsa was much too young to remember it - a moment’s inattention, an explosion, the Judge Magisters not where they should have been. He escaped with no more than a few scratches, but that was more luck than anything. In some Houses, I suppose it might be viewed as a coming of age.”

“Do you mean…” Penelo says, confused, “it was another House, in Archadia, that tried to…?”

“It is, as often as not. I would think both Empires have likely lost as many to their own infighting as ever in each other’s wars. The only difference between this attempt and the thousand before was the response. Usually a House would return fire as best they could, a spate of blood for blood, perhaps a suit drawn up for the Judges to ignore. Instead, there was nothing. The Emperor made all the proper gestures, of course, but no real consequences, as no one was sure who was truly responsible. Until one day House Durant, I believe, one of oldest of the Thirty collapsed all but overnight.”

“Vayne.” Penelo says, and Balthier nods.

“He dismantled their House from the inside out, and even now I doubt any know how it was accomplished . Debts called in, assets frozen and deals waylaid - any hidden secret behind Durant’s doors spun out into a greater scandal. It was quick and subtle and absolute, with every charge imaginable laid against them - except the attempt on Larsa Solidor’s life. It was already known to those that needed the warning, what Durant was being punished for and by whom, and he drowned in the onslaught. All too soon, his children abandoned him for the safety of any House that would harbor them. His wife followed in short order. At the very last, Durant was forced to sell his name, and relinquish his House forever.”

“I’ve heard the way they talk about….” Penelo says. “That’s very bad, isn’t it?”

“It would have been kinder to kill him outright. Since the dawn of Archadia, there have been only a handful of Houses to meet such an end. It is usually takes generations of poor decisions and mismanagement. Vayne Solidor, barely of age, felled one of the most powerful families in the realm in little over a month. The message was clear - go after Vayne and it’s business as usual, with shots fired and silent knives in back alleys, all quite civilized. Take one step toward Larsa, though, and find yourself erased from history.”

“… and you don’t believe he did that for his brother?”

Balthier goes quiet and still for a moment, arms crossed and eyes lost in shadow. “I think the boy provides an excellent reminder to the world of Vayne’s abilities, and the extent of his reach. Larsa may be a challenge to him, one more lie skillfully told. I’d like to believe the interest in his brother is more than mere novelty, the vaguest flickers of whatever stands for the conscience of such a man. I do not pretend to know the mind of Vayne Solidor, but whatever the case, I greatly doubt if it will do any of us good for him to have his way.”

“It sounds like you’re planning to fight.” Penelo says, with a small smile.

“I do prefer to run away when I can - much less of a hassle.” Balthier sighs. “It takes a bit more coin to make mercenary work worth the while - though it does do wonders for one’s dashing reputation.”

“I don’t think you need much help with that.” A slight wryness in the girl’s tone, not quite impressed - and Fran thinks that perhaps she is wrong, and Penelo is not in the habit of selling at discount for smooth-tongued knaves.

“I would inquire, before you go - on the matter of Doctor Cid. I don’t suppose the man spilled any useful state secrets while in your company? There’s good money to be had in such information.”

Fran blinks, fingers stilling on an arrow shaft. Penelo shakes her head. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t… I wouldn’t even have known what to ask.”

“It’s of no real consequence. May I ask what you thought of him?” 

The girl shifts again, yet another opinion she suspects will not be popular.

“He was kind to me. A bit… distracted, I suppose. He did not appreciate the heat.”

“I imagine not. I thank you for your time, Penelo, and of course, the return of my handkerchief.”

She nods, and looks as if she might wish to say goodnight to Fran but does not quite have the nerve, retreating quickly and closing the door quietly behind her. Fran finishes honing the edge of a knife, before moving back to where Balthier still sits in silence, looking out into empty space.

“So… there is something left in the old man for chivalry, at least.” He sighs heavily, and shuts his eyes. “And now he has a Shard of his very own. The last they fell into such great fortune, the good Doctor tore the heart out of a nation. I wonder what he dreams of for an encore.”

Balthier has never spoke the fear aloud, but she has known him long enough to imagine it. If this goes as it has, there may come a point that he is face to face with his father once more, and how many ways can that end? Fran must be the one to send this Doctor to the next world, should it come to that. Balthier might very well hate her for it, such things are complicated, but that is still better than having to spill the blood of his kin.

“What happened to that man? The fallen lord?”

“Durant, you mean? Hung himself by the chandelier in his front hall, though by then it was of little consequence. He was dead in all the ways that mattered the moment he surrendered the name. Vayne is nothing if not thorough - I am rather glad Penelo met the Solidor she did, first.”

“It may not yet keep her from trouble.” Fran says. “She holds the Nethicite.”

Balthier looks up at her. “What?”

“The same piece that Larsa Solidor had with him in the mines. I do not imagine she stole it from him.”

He frowns. A shame they are not the pirates they seem or this little adventure would be over, that tiny rock valuable enough to retire on tenfold.

“Quite curious, to burden her with such a gift… and worth examining further, once we are quit from this place.”

“You ought rest,” she says. “I doubt we will tarry long.”

Balthier groans and stretches, but he finally does stand, moving slowly toward the bed. 

“I had hoped to gain a few more meals from this, at the very least. Do make sure to take _something_ before we go, pry out a sconce or two, or at least grab a doorstop - and remind Nono to take care of the outer locks, so that Her Highness might pilfer our ship with a minimum of bother.”

—————————————————

Fran prefers the ruined and overgrown gardens of the estate to the usual Bhujerban obsessions with perfection, far more grace in their wild beauty than the most well-manicured path. It is dark, and she is waiting for the princess to make her move, nothing else to do but enjoy a few quiet moments surrounded by the green, listening to the wild Bhujerban winds twist their way through the leaves and branches.

She steps into a small clearing to find she is not the only one enjoying the night’s silence. Basch fon Ronsenberg stands with his eyes closed, head tipped back under the full moon and as still as if he had grown from the spot. He opens his eyes after a few moments, but her presence does not seem to trouble him. A viera can be many things - liar and spy and quite often confidante. Just enough difference between them, that humes do not feel the need to keep so many secrets. Or perhaps it is as Balthier suggests, that they believe the viera already find them wanting, and so feel no need to try and impress.

Whatever the reason, she is grateful at least not to add to his burdens and for a long time neither of them speak, preferring to stand quietly beneath what is ever the most breathtaking sky in Ivalice.

“I could not sleep.” Basch finally says. “The room… it felt a bit stuffy. The walls…”

The ceilings in the estate are high and vaulted - but they are ceilings still, and a viera is never one to argue the value of open spaces, and the glittering spill of evening after so long underground.

“It is a fine night to watch the stars.”

“Yes.”

The heavens wheel by in peaceful silence. If Balthier were here, he might ask to hear a story her people tell of the skies, though there is not one he cannot recite back to her by now.

“It is strange.” Basch says. “I still feel as if this is not quite real. As if _I_ am not quite… it was not always easy there in the dark, to keep track of time, and place. I cannot help but fear that this is - that it could all just be a dream.” 

“Do you often dream of being pursued by an Empire?”

Basch chuckles. It creaks a bit at the edges, dusty from disuse, but warm and steady nonetheless.

“I see your point.”

He will go with them to Raithwall’s Tomb. He would follow the princess to his grave without complaint. Fran doubts they will even have to round up Vaan and Penelo - the boy has followed her Highness with an eager curiosity, and the girl follows the boy. The princess is certainly possessed of a fearsome determination, though stealing a ship from thieves would be a daunting task even if Balthier did not secure the Strahl with all rationality of a jealous husband. If they wanted, it would be easy enough to do nothing at all, and let Ashelia curse over the control panels until morning. 

“Vossler has left Bhujerba, to round up what remains of the scattered Resistance, and seek what support he can. I am tasked to watch over her Highness in his absence, though I doubt this was with her blessing.” Basch smiles to the heavens. “He thinks her too unforgiving, but even I cannot argue she ought have faith in me.”

“I do not think she blames you, even with what she has said. It is safer for her to trust no one, and when she does not know what to do it seems better to simply keep her distance from all. The princess believes she must carry the weight of this on her own, she believes it is what she is for. It will not be easy to change her mind.”

Basch’s expression is unreadable.

“I… would prefer it not be easy.”

Fran’s ears twitch slightly, at the sound of footsteps in the darkness, making their cautious way to where the Strahl lies waiting.

“I believe that you will get your wish.”

=======================

1\. One line of game dialogue in there.


	5. Chapter 5

“Approaching the city, sir.”

“Hold course and speed.”

“Sir.”

It’s easier in many ways to navigate a ship the size of the Ifrit, even through the crowded airspace at the outskirts of Archades, when every other ship has good reason to stay out of the way. The ship will dock well north of the city on his departure, and Ghis does not know if he will be returned to it, prepared to parry Rozarria’s next inevitable thrust, or if that honor will fall to another.

Doubtful that this day will end with his neck on the block, though there is hardly a faithful measure for such things anymore, the Emperor’s judgments no longer to a purpose but their own inscrutable ends. 

The mood aboard is tense, though Ghis is not particularly nervous, even if there hasn’t yet been a response from the palace since their last missive - the girl spirited away but the Dusk Shard still in their grasp. He’s had to imprison half the men from the deck until one of them proves traitor, not that Ghis thinks much will come of it. The damage has already been done, though perhaps not as bad as it might have been. If he’d been given the choice between girl and stone, it would have ended much the same.

The Dusk Shard gleams quietly back at him from the table, less a divine weapon now than an oversized paperweight. The men here do not know it is the prize, seeing only a crystal like any other, and if Ghis hadn’t witnessed it react to Dalmasca’s heir he might have dismissed it himself. He ought to send it to the stern, a far more secure location, but it’s Doctor Cid’s men on the engines, and he will not leave them alone for one moment with such a prize.

The sun sweeps out from behind a cloud bank, light glancing off windows and panels and armor, even kindling the Dusk Shard for a moment, a warm glow dancing in its depths, like the graceful swirl of a lady’s dark skirts. It is beautiful and strange, though truth be told, Ghis cannot see much lasting value in even this fabled relic of the Dynast-King - a powerful weapon, to be sure, and certain to worry Rozarria, but it will take more than a single blow to deal any worthy damage. 

The mad Doctor talks to stones like this. Stones and walls and open air, and it should have been no more than the folly of a dying house, but for the Nethicite. No reason the Empire’s vast armies should not hold dominion over all - but for Vayne Solidor, and the Draklor Laboratories and the slow but certain dismantling of everything Ghis knows to be true. Power in the royal court has always been a bloody battle of inches, attrition across decades. Removing Vayne to Rabanastre has provided a moment’s breathing room, but there is no doubt that Ghis is losing the war. 

“We are being hailed, sir. The Alexander.”

Hardly a need to say so, Ghis can see it from the window, the ship far on the horizon but caught in full sun, poised like winged victory against the sky. The most powerful airship in Ivalice several times over, and though it may well be the symbol of all that stands against him Ghis cannot deny his pride in it, absolute proof of the might of his nation and the reach of her blade.

“Well met, Judge Bergan. I hear things went rather well at the border.”

Rumors of great chaos, and he likes to think of those panicked Rozarrians scattering madly from what was little more than a test, mistaking it for invasion. As if it mattered, as if it would not be like trying to outrun a hurricane. 

A slight pause on the other side, and when the voice finally speaks it is dry and crisp and most importantly, not Bergan.

“Good afternoon, Judge Ghis.” Zargabaath says. “I am happy to report that the ship functioned well within its requirements. The Emperor was greatly pleased.”

The Emperor has been making changes at the last moment again, moving the Judges about in a shell game of his own design, and perhaps it is subtle insult and perhaps it is entirely irrational - or perhaps he is even losing the ability to tell one from the other. Ghis has marked such harmless eccentricities in other men of his age - but other men are not Gramis Gana Solidor.

“News has spread of an unfortunate disturbance in Dalmasca, and that it may have followed you home.”

Gloating bastard. As if Zargabaath doesn’t know. The tale of his vanished prisoner has likely funneled all the way into Old Archades by now, the loss of the leader of the so-called Resistance. The only benefit of a spotlight fixed on his failure is that all other news has likely fallen by the wayside. He would very much like to keep the news of the Dusk Shard as quiet as possible, for as long as he can.

“A minor complication, no doubt soon to be corrected. I would not speak further until I have delivered a full report to His Excellency.”

“I will not hinder you a moment more. Good day, Judge Ghis.”

A simplification of the worst kind, that the Judge Magisters stand as nothing but Imperial bodyguards, even if Drace seems hopelessly wedded to the task. No doubt each House tells its own story of the fall of the stratocracy and the rise of Solidor. Ghis knows it mainly as a matter of political convenience, an agreement between the strongest Houses for the benefit of them all. 

The truth his family knows is that there had been a throne once, before there was a Solidor - and there had been a Ghis upon it. His House, both betrayer and betrayed. It certainly gives a man much to think about. 

“Sir, you are cleared for transport to the palace.”

“Very good. The bridge is yours.”

“Sir.”

Outside of combat maneuvers, a ship of the _Ifrit’s_ size gives little sign when it changes course or slows, and even a turn seems more as if the ship is fixed while the world spins around it. As steady as walking on solid ground, and in these large ships even the hallways are a comfortable size.

He passes a cluster of men in the hall, gathered around one of the maintenance shafts, sparks flying from whatever work’s being done deep within. The men are Draklor’s artificers, a presence he is forced to tolerate for the sake of the ship, and because Vayne Solidor knows how to win an argument about their necessity. Barely of the military, they are still technically under his command, but they are aware of how little he knows about how to keep the ship in the sky, and any deference on their part is a mere technicality.

As now, when they see him and straighten up and salute, but it isn’t until they catch sight of the Shard in his hands that they pay him any real attention, eyes going wide to a man. Grasping little mercenaries, with no pride for the uniforms they wear, no sense of the sacrifice - only coin and privilege. All of them the Doctor’s spies, and what Cid knows Vayne is always soon to learn and Ghis cannot touch them without catching nine kinds of hell for it. 

He is a Judge Magister, the Emperor’s own will made flesh and steel, and of all the things Ghis thought could not fade, that he would not see whittled down day after day… Only two Houses in Archades can mark a truly unbroken line from the beginning, some combination of foresight and luck - and in the case of House Drace, a distinct lack of mercy - providing for at least one new Judge Magister for every generation. 

Drace has no one who will take up her name, Gabranth the closest she can claim to any sort of successor. Ghis has four lovely daughters, all well married - but no sons. His eldest grandchild is still little more than a babe. He will not live to see a crimson cloak grace the shoulders of his heir - there will be no heir.

His grip tightens slightly around the Shard, and Ghis feels a twinge of pain midway up his arm. A memento of his training, from so many years ago. A broken limb long-healed, and yet it sees fit to remind him of the past now and then, if slightly more often as the years go by. 

It will be all too easy for Vayne to set the name of Ghis aside, to step over it on his way into the future. The son is as paranoid as the father ever was, but Ghis has served the Emperor faithfully, to great acclaim. Most likely he faces a fate no worse than early retirement, and from there a country estate and swift obscurity. All his life only a footnote, with the the future belonging wholly to the skies. 

Dalmasca, that dusty pile of stone, may have seen the last of anything he might call a victory. 

\---------------------------------

At the peak of Gramis’ power, Ghis could have stood guard in all three of the palace’s audience chambers in a single day, the Emperor preferring to meet foreign diplomats in the larger, crimson room, well flanked with statues of Archadian heroes. The merchants and Senators he would see in smaller, private spaces, for those already well-versed in the Empire’s history. The chambers all stand mostly unused these days, the Emperor too unwell to do more than keep short hours in Senate meetings, any other business taking place in a small room attached to his own suite. It lacks the power of the official chamber, the chair hardly even a throne but for the man seated in it.

Ghis can see it most clearly now, the waxen cast to his skin, the way his body sinks beneath the robe and crown. Gramis has been dying for a conveniently long time, but this may be the true end of it all. He is speaking to Drace, too low to be overheard. The Emperor prefers to meet with each Judge alone, all the better to keep them guessing about each other, to make sure no one ever can be certain of who has been given which commands. 

“Your Excellency.”

Ghis doesn’t hesitate to kneel, bowing his head with the Dusk Shard carefully tucked in the crook of his arm. A portrait of contrition - far better to overdo, should Gramis be in a mood. Impossible to tell which Emperor might see fit to meet him - confident and stoic, withdrawn and diffident or paranoid and scheming. All of these are preferable to when Gramis waxes nostalgic.

It is damning to feel pity for one’s lord. Ghis can appreciate the dread of knowing an entire nation stands in wait for that first rattle of breath, the first sign of the end, even as he loathes Gramis for his fear. 

“Judge Ghis. I have been awaiting your arrival for some time." A slight cant of his head. "Leave us now, Drace. We shall continue at a later hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Drace is much too loyal for one who’s been in the court as long as she has, long enough to know that Gramis does not often return such faithful devotion with equal reward. The only reason Ghis puts even the slightest weight to the suggestion that she and the Emperor might be lovers, although Ghis thinks that unswerving faith is more likely to be just another obligation inherited from her father. If Drace questions herself now, if she dares take one step onto that thinning ice how much more of her life might she have to rethink, or regret?

Whatever the case, their Houses have never been allies and Ghis sees no reason it ought to change. Drace has always shared the sentiment, little more than the slight tilt of her head to acknowledge his existence as she leaves the room, so expressionless it makes no difference that she has the helmet off.

Ghis removes his, setting the Dusk Shard down in front of the Emperor, and he is already certain there will be little rebuke for the loss of the princess, not with how Gramis stares at the stone. 

It is unnerving, to see all those who are to protect Archadia so lost in their obsessions, so determined to chase down fairy tales. Only a fool would doubt the value of the Nethicite, even Ghis must give the Doctor that due, but the man sacrificed sanity and soul to achieve his goals, and he thinks the Emperor would give them all up just as easily. What madness has spread from Draklor, to place all their hopes and dreams on weapons they still barely understand.

“It is a shame about your prisoner, Ghis.”

“My failure was unforgivable, your Grace. I will discover who aboard the _Ifrit_ dared to play at traitor, though it does seem the girl had unexpected allies well beyond the borders of Dalmasca.”

“I imagine so.” Gramis says. “I hope the Marquis enjoys his reunion.”

“If you wish, my lord, I…”

The Emperor waves the thought away.

“Bhujerba is as yet unwilling to lose our coin from its coffers, and the insurgency is no longer your concern. The Lord Consul has made it quite clear he prefers to be unfettered by our assistance, so we will allow him to face this situation as he sees fit.”

He is not speaking only of a princess lost, but of another man never spoken of, a plan Ghis has still never heard about by any official means. Should Dalmasca discover the plot that stole their king from them, should fon Ronsenberg raise his voice in the streets and rally a new army, whatever help Vayne may request from the Empire will not quite reach him in time. 

It’s not the time or place for this kind of treachery. Rozarria is not some tiny desert kingdom with a scattering of ships in the sky - they are an equal, the Nethicite only one advantage and the merchant kings with plenty of their own. Dalmasca is not some piece to be sacrificed for the death of one man, even if it is Vayne Soldior.

If Gramis wasn’t such a coward in this, frozen in place by the weight of old ghosts, then Ghis might have put a sword through Vayne the night of the fete and been done with it. As if the gods mark such difference between sins - if anything, Ghis thinks simple murder far more honorable than death by inaction. Yet Gramis refuses to make the judgement he knows he must, refuses to see that while Archadia did not suffer so greatly for whatever he believes are his wicked deeds, he may yet do untold damage with his penance.

“Lord Zargabaath contacted me, from the _Alexander_. He said the flight was a great success.”

Gramis scoffs, though it seems to cost him a bit too much breath. “Rozarria protested immediately, of course. A blatant act of war. As if it wasn’t the longest stretch of empty land in Ivalice, in case anything _did_ go amiss. We sent the official statement from Draklor - the ‘widest possible margin of error.’ I don’t imagine it will change much in the end.” Ghis can hear the dry rasp as the Emperor rubs his hands together. “You are curious, why I bestowed such an honor upon Zargabaath, and kept Bergan here in the city?”

“I do not question the wisdom of your appointments, my lord. Zargabaath is a fine commander for the fleet.”

The Emperor cuts him a look, sharp and piercing - not buying his deference for a moment, and once again Ghis wonders what is act and what is true and not if Gramis is dangerous - of course he is, he always has been - but for what reason is he dangerous _today_?

“Bergan remains here in Archadia. I will be sending Zargabaath out with the Eighth, aboard the Leviathan, under the Lord Consul’s stewardship from Dalmasca. He seems to get along with Vayne, and in times such as these I would prefer to keep those I can trust close at hand.”

Ghis wonders if Zargabaath even realizes he’s made a misstep, that the Emperor has quietly shifted his allegiance from unquestioned to suspicious, with likely little cause. He has no idea where he himself stands in His Excellency’s esteem, or for how long, and it all may just as likely shift back again before Zargabaath is any the wiser. Still, if Ghis is in Gramis’ good graces this is all far better than he expected - even if does cast further doubts on the Emperor’s judgment.

“I would know your mind on the southern border.”

“I saw no mark of Rozarrian involvement, your Grace, at least not openly. The Lord Consul handled the situation in Rabanastre with all skill and efficiency. I believe, however, that he was far too lenient, and they will continue to punish him for it. It will no doubt keep him occupied for the immediate future.”

“He truly seeks to truly make a place for himself there, in such a land?” The scornful note in the Emperor’s voice makes such a goal sound only foolish, but Ghis knows better. The benefit of having Vayne so distant from Archades is the equal penalty of not being able to track his movements or his gains.

“Vayne seeks what he has always sought, your Grace.”

In the wrong mood, this would strike His Excellency as too forward, too presumptuous and even uncharitable, but at the moment Gramis only nods, looking out as if he might catch sight of the desert kingdom, of the Lord Consul in the midst of some treasonous plot.

“Larsa is with him now, as is Cidolfus Bunansa.”

“The Doctor left his lab? Voluntarily?”

“By the time I would have denied it, he was already halfway there. It is no matter, they will return soon enough.”

An edge in the Emperor’s tone - yes, it certainly does matter, one more reminder where the Doctor’s true loyalties lie. Ghis does not know and does not want to know how Vayne ever managed to gain such devotion from a lunatic, it is enough to simply endure the results.

Nothing in this world quite as irritating as gaining a straight answer from either man, just as likely Cid will receive a summons or Vayne will remember some appointment and they’ll happily excuse themselves from all responsibility. Put them together and it’s infinitely worse, a whole world of little glances and the slightest shifts of expression standing in for any sensible conversation. No matter how little Vayne glances in his direction, there’s no doubt that a good deal of that silence is composed in marking Ghis’ failings. Vayne has never respected him, has never seen the Judge Magisters as anything better than a half-broken tool, a hindrance to be worked with until the improvement presented itself.

Contemplating regicide is, in its own way, practically a form of patriotism in Archades, but with Vayne it has always been something to savor.

“Larsa will be of age soon.” The Emperor says.

“Yes, my lord.”

“I would have you begin the security preparations for the entire city. I wish this to be a celebration to eclipse all others.”

Ghis might question the sanity of such festivities on the advent of battle, though by the time the young lord’s birthday arrives they may very well be in the middle of it. Still, there is a certain level of decorum that must be attended to, regardless of conflict or strife, and House Ghis has not lasted so long by telling the Emperor what he cannot do.

“It will be done, my lord. The safety of Lord Larsa is ever paramount.”

The Emperor nods, distractedly. Ghis had been prepared to leave the Shard and his apologies and gain little else from this meeting, but it seems even now that Gramis is not quite finished.

“I have been… made aware of an offer. Quietly, of course - but there are those among the Senators who believe that for the sake of stability, in this time of growing strife the people would be set at ease to know Archadia stands allied, that such rifts that might allow our enemies time to strike have been healed before the fighting starts.”

The only way to stop the Senate, the Judges and the Emperor from fighting would be to light one on fire, drop it on the other and put the blaze out with the ashes of the third. It has been the way of the world from before the days of his father’s father. Ghis waits for some sign of mockery, of that same self-awareness on the Emperor’s face, and is stunned when it does not come.

“The Senate would back Larsa for Emperor…. if I were to publicly denounce Vayne.”

The Senate hopes Vayne will have to stop for breath somewhere between killing his father and the little upstart, and they can take advantage of that moment’s inattention to bomb him to death. The last thing they are set to suffer through is another century under House Solidor rule, no matter how pliable Larsa might prove. Ghis can’t help but wonder what their plans are to get rid of the Judge Magisters, if that band of dried-out, useless husks actually believe they can lead an army. 

Gods, but he can see them try. Ghis can already imagine their obscene, ridiculous plan from one end to the other, with the same absurd stroke of luck that rid them of Solidors somehow dismantling the Judge Magisters as well - and Rozarria would watch, and sweep in just as the fools were patting themselves on the back and toasting to their victory. Whatever remained of the Empire in that aftermath, it would be little more than what the Senate could beg to keep, whatever the merchant lords picked from their teeth when they had finished with the carcass.

If there is anything in him that ever called itself worthy, Ghis cannot allow that to happen.

“Do I have your oath, Judge Ghis, that you will stand by my decision, and defend the Empire?”

What sort of insult to House and history, that the question even needs to be asked?

“I am a guardian of Archadia, Your Excellency. It is not in me to forsake that vow.”

\-------------------------------------

Blue-black clouds lay like lace across a slowly darkening sky, as Ghis sits in a narrow, straight backed pew in the rear of a cathedral perched on the top floor of one of Tsenoble’s many towers. He has never paid much thought to the world beyond this one, neither the scattered pagan gods of the more provincial soldiers nor the grand and all-encompassing faith of Bur-Omisace. Of course he gives his tithe, and bows his head as low as anyone, but Ghis has never pondered the dispensation of his soul, what it is or where it is going, and when he is dead he doubts he will care much even then. 

What the church is at this moment is a public space mostly abandoned in off hours, where his presence would be easy enough to explain away. Vast enough that Ghis can keep an eye on all in attendance - an old man and an old woman at the very front, no one else to be seen. It is also a place that sees little use from the men of Draklor. A few are devout, but there is little encouragement to be so, and most of them prefer to use the tools in their own hands rather than petition the interest of a higher power.

So no one is watching, when the man slips into the seat next to his, his eyes to the ground like a good and penitent sinner. A finely dressed noble of the district, though the cuffs on his coat are just starting to fray. Less a mark against his nobility than of his disinterest in it - the man comes from an old and well-established House, though one not quite illustrious enough to pitch him out on his ear when he discovered a love for the sciences.

It is a story with a cast of familiar characters, men who toil furiously to prop up indolents preferring to live off former glories. In this case, one high-ranking artificer from Draklor desperately struggling to keep up appearances. Despite all his coin, a single man can do only so much to stave off disaster, especially when he is the third son, when such sacrifice is his birthright. All too easy to lose oneself to obligation, and drag all the best parts of one’s life down into the same muck.

This particular scientist has a son, who is strong and fair and all that a son should be. A Judge, and well-regarded, with a wife and a child and great loyalty to his House. A man who could not help but act when the time came to see how hard his father struggled, and of course then the moment of desperation, the one fatal choice - selling secrets to Rozarria. It hardly matters how little information was shared, or if there was never any real consequence. Treason is treason, and Archadia knows no greater sin. One word from Ghis and the son will be executed, his name stripped of all honor and that will surely be enough to bring the entire House down with him. If it had been any other man, Ghis would have done it months ago, but with this the artificer’s position does him one final service.

It is Ghis’ best and only connection into the inner workings of Draklor, the father turned traitor to spare the life of a traitorous son. Usually the Judge Magister is the one to call these meetings, to tear the man down until some new sliver of information slips free, though this time it is the scientist who called him out, almost at the moment of his return. He has a box with him, covered in a cloth, now resting beneath the seat. Ghis considers that it might be a bomb, but he rather doubts the man has the nerve.

“Do you know why the Doctor left for Dalmasca?”

The scientist flinches from the sound of his voice. He looks more pale than usual, even his slight movements tense and strained. Ghis must take care with how hard he pushes against this desperation, or else watch the man fall apart completely, like one of his own engines pulling itself to pieces. 

“I imagine he was concerned for Lord Vayne. Also, he may have heard of your recovery of the Dusk Shard, though I understand it has returned with you to Archades.”

“It is with the Emperor now.”

The man shudders, gazing down at his clenched hands. “I hope His Excellency will exercise all due caution.”

“Is it truly of the same power that leveled Nabudis? It seems impossible something so small could-”

The scientist stares at him then, only stares, the way Ghis regard Senators when they think to speak of war. He very much doubts Gramis will let the Shard out of his sight, but it might be worth ensuring no curious scholars or random magicks stray too close.

“You called me here for a purpose, I assume.”

The man nods, swallows, flexes his hands and nods again. A misery of nervous tics, until it is all Ghis can do not to reach out and shake him still.

“I did not… there hasn’t been time, and with Cid gone and the Alexander set to fly- it’s been weeks of work at all hours, and even then, we didn’t know if-“

“You give me excuses, not news. Excuses will not keep your House from falling.”

The scientist flinches, and nods gravely, before reaching underneath his seat and bringing up the box he’d stowed there. He flips back the cloth, unlatches the door and then there is a small white dove in his hands, its head tipping cautiously this way and that but otherwise calm. Before Ghis can ask the obvious question, the man’s hands close around it, and he swiftly wrings the creature’s neck. It lies limp in his lap, wings splayed and now Ghis is sure he has pushed the man too far - if he hadn’t been cracked from the start. A bit of useful technology is all that has ever separated Draklor from the madhouse.

“Wait.” The scientist says, as if sensing his mood, his eyes still fixed on the dead animal - and as Ghis watches, he sees the tiny chest rise and fall with an impossible breath, the wings twitching, and then the bird lifts its head, ruffling its feathers as if only just waking from a nap.

“I can kill it again, if you’d like, or you can try it yourself. I had to kill it a few times myself, to be sure of what I was looking at, and that was after I studied his notes.” 

Ghis had been there, in the capital of Landis on the day they’d finally torn down the silver-blue of the republic and raised Archadian colors in its stead. He still has the flag, a prize of war from a day that could make the whole world seem new. The same feeling, to disappear that first time beneath the helm as Judge Magister - and now Ghis feels it once more, that potential, staring down into the blank gaze of a simple beast, or what ought to be…

“It’s not invincible.” The scientist continues on. “If it bled for too long, or maybe drowned - it _can_ be killed, but far less easily than one might expect, and as you can see, the ability to heal quickly from even mortal wounds is… considerable.”

“How is such a thing possible?”

“Cid’s always in his lab, and even when he’s not… but with everyone working on the Alexander and the Doctor gone, I was able to find a way inside. We all know he works on more than just the ships - his pet projects, his studies of the Nethicite. I never imagined… I never could have thought….” He’s rambling, the greatest downside to dealing with his sort, but after a moment the artificer manages to find his point again. “Using Nethicite on living tissue - he’s been able to meld it to the bones without killing the subject. It’s incredible.” 

“What is it _for_?”

The second time in so many minutes that the man looks at him as if he were an imbecile, and Ghis might be tempted to remind him of all he stands to lose but reason holds him in check because this is far more important than his pride. He may not be a man of science but he can understand that at least.

“A test case. A lot of his research… it gets very complicated and impossibly obscure, but he seems to think that he could transfer this procedure to… to a hume. A sort of perfect weapon, a… divine soldier, if you’re feeling poetic.” The man carefully puts the dove back in its small enclosure, and on a second glance Ghis can see it has been reinforced. “It will scratch its way free of a normal cage, given half the chance. Cid believes that in humes, it might also increase their magickal potential as well as their strength and resilience, or so his notes say…”

“Do you have these notes?”

The scientist shakes his head. “It’s not just… there’s at least a half-dozen books full, and those are just what I saw.”

“Who else knows of this?”

“No one. Just… just Cid, and I, and now you, Judge Magister.”

“I want everything you have. Every word, and I’ll be taking this experiment with me as well.”

The man pales. “I can’t just… I mean, I wasn’t even sure how I’d get this back to… it was one thing, sir, with everyone occupied at the test flight, but now that it’s over-“

“That is not your concern. I will let you know when to move, and provide a necessary distraction for your colleagues. I need you to bring me the information you have on this procedure. I want it all.”

“You’re not going to… I mean, I don’t want anyone to get hurt, and the Doctor… he’ll be back any day now. Cid will know right away what’s happened…”

“That is not your concern.”

The man shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking up toward the front of the room, perhaps even using this church for its intended purpose, at least for a moment. Ghis is fortunate, really, that he’s found this man - unambitious and timid, a creature who wouldn’t have come this far without a lash at his heels. If the scientist were thinking clearly, he would realize how much further he could take what he knows. A find like this… he could laugh off Ghis’ threats from atop his own throne, if he did not lack the courage.

“If I do this for you, then it means… it means that my son will…”

“As long as he does not make himself known to me, I see no reason to pursue this matter further.”

The scientist makes a sound, as if all the air has squeezed out of him at once. It does not seem quite like relief - he certainly doesn’t speak or even move when the Judge Magister stands, picking up the cloth-covered box as he passes. The priests are lighting candles, and Ghis can hear late afternoon psalms being sung, echoing like old memories down the long marble hall.

Odd, really, that they see the need to bother. The Empire has never favored tales of divine right, no gods singling out one man over the next. House Solidor has held the throne for so long because they are strong and cunning, nothing more. Archadia may not be as egalitarian as her claims, but it is still true - anyone can rule her who has the will to do so.

———————————————

Practice swords may be blunt but they’re plenty heavy and it still hurts like hell to catch one full across the side. Ghis grunts, drawing his shoulder up to shield himself as Bergan pushes his advantage, nothing to do but take the blows that follow, until it feels like his arm may well drop off and make a run for it. 

“You’re distracted today.” Bergan says, taking a step back, shifting his stance and barely winded. Not a sword in this world he doesn’t wield like a war hammer, little finesse to his style, just a sheer and brutal joy - though it certainly gets the job done. It’s been a while since their last duel, but it isn’t long before they fall into a comfortable and familiar pattern of beating each other senseless. Ghis feels a little of his frustration fade with each blow that does connect, his quick sword a fair enough match against the other man’s unrelenting strength.

He has five years in rank over Bergan, the man’s House of a lower standing, though only off the battlefield. A warrior born from warriors, Bergan with two sons of his own, both Judges of fierce reputation and looking to make their name in the coming war. Ghis knows of Bergan’s dream - to see both his sons as Judge Magisters, and if it is an impossible goal it may be for the lack of a decent Emperor to serve, than their ability to do so.

Ghis is not at his most focused, if for good reason, though Bergan is not one for excuses, and the next blow knocks him off balance even as another rips the sword from his hand. He goes down, flat on his back and staring at the point of Bergan’s sword, at least half a dozen bruises he is feeling now and will be feeling later, his most clever bit of spell work only going so far. Ghis has not yet given over to time and entropy, but he knows it is coming, while Bergan still bests men half his age and utterly ignores the passing of seasons.

“Distracted.” Bergan says again, and spits into the dirt. “One of your daughters tumble her gardener? Or is it finally the wife?”

“Look to your own.” Ghis laughs, getting to his feet. It had been a good enough match for both their Houses, save for the lack of sons, but with his children grown and wed and gone his wife had long since retired to the country. It always satisfied her more than life in Archades, and he doubts she thinks on him any more than he considers her. Bergan’s wife lives in the city, but she is a nervous thing, prone to all sorts of odd complaints, and home is her own private suite in a hospital wing as much as anywhere.

“What is it, then? Still angry you lost the girl in Dalmasca?”

Ghis frowns. “You’re not at all upset that Zargabaath was the one to charge Rozarria’s lines?”

He already knows the answer is no - Bergan gives not a damn for status or court politics, perhaps the only reason his House had never risen as high as it could have. Unlike so many others, he is well content to follow orders as long as those orders put him on the front lines, as long as he might take the field and crush whatever seeks to oppose him. A simple man, though not a stupid one, and many have made that mistake and not lived long enough to correct it.

Bergan shrugs. “It was an airship. What is there to do in an airship but give orders and wave your arms about? No meat in it. Nothing to satisfy.”

He has allowed Ghis a moment of breathing space, but no more than that, and Bergan raises his swords once more, shifting into a fighting stance. Ghis replies in kind, raising his own sword high - and they clash, and clash again, the same as it has been for years before this, and Ghis takes no small comfort in the familiar even though he knows it must change - that it already has. A few more strikes, and blade meets blade without either giving ground, Bergan pushing back against his blade, a moment trapped at deadlock.

“The Emperor… is thinking of announcing a change in succession.” Ghis says, and then comes the slide of steel-on-steel, Bergan’s slice to his parry, once and again.

“So the Senate’s finally managed to bend his ear?” Bergan growls in disgust. “What’s their offer?”

“The same old mix of flattery and fear, I imagine - but it seems that Gramis has grown desperate enough to listen.” Ghis dodges a vicious overhand, and Bergan blocks his counter with eager violence, batting his sword away, waiting for the next attack. One man, at least, who would not mind a civil war.

“So what is it? Are we to be without an Emperor?”

“The boy.”

Ghis snorts. “Same difference then. Vayne will kill them for it, if they give him half the chance.”

“Yes,” Ghis says. “He will.” 

Ghis has never outfought Bergan in these matches of theirs, usually managing a draw, though that isn’t always guaranteed. No one among the common soldiers has any chance of besting him, and even among the Judge Magisters there is only one who ventured close. Bergan and Gabranth had not been allowed to finish that duel, and he doubts either of them have forgotten it.

“About time we got to the end of it.” Bergan grins wolfishly. “I can’t say it’s not clever on their part. No matter what Vayne does, they’re set to hang him for it. Unless he’s waiting on them for some reason of his own.”

“I do love trying to think like a Soldior.” Ghis grimaces, and takes another whack to the side for his trouble.

“None of it will matter, once Rozarria remembers they’ve got a war to fight.” Bergan says. “Let the politicians squabble, let Vayne rout them for good - what matters is getting in on the ground. I hear you didn’t get much action in Rabanastre. Wish I’d been there, I’d have loved to put the fear in them.”

“As if there was anyone worth fighting.” Ghis says. “I wouldn’t be so eager for battle - there’s no reason it won’t be like it was with Nabradia, if not worse. They are taking the war from us, Bergan. The further we’re pulled from the men, the more we’re forced us to command from the air - soon the soldiers will admire us as much as we do the Senators. It’ll be those scrawny fools from Draklor giving the orders next, just you wait.”

Bergan doesn’t respond, and Ghis knows that he’s struck true, enough of a reminder to bring their sparring to a rather disheartening end. 

He hadn’t been sure when he’d stepped out of the cathedral, of what would come next. Ghis had no plan, only the desperate promise of a coward and a box full of the impossible. He hadn’t even been certain what speaking to Bergan might accomplish, though it was clear he could not move forward alone. Just what the future holds, that ultimate goal - the thought of it grows larger and larger inside him by the moment.

His blood is as noble as any in Archades, and Ghis has spilled it without question, he has led the charge once and again. Whatever the feeble connivers in the court think they control, he has an army pledged beneath his banner, and they know the man they serve. Add to that Bergan’s forces, loyal as his own… and now this new power, one that may well eclipse all others?

Ghis thinks he might be starting to understand the edges of the Doctor’s madness. It is all the matter of a simple question, really - _why not_?

He is not a young man, and when he dies the name will go with him. Even if Ghis had an heir, even in the best of all possible worlds, could he truly ever bow to Vayne Soldior? If there is another way - no matter how unlikely, how unimaginable - is it not his obligation to his House and his country and all that he is to try?

Just think of what Archadia could become, cut free from sycophants and pretenders and all the useless trappings of politics. Consider the Empire as it ought to be, fresh and bright as a blade new-forged and poised to bring all Ivalice under her banner, Archadia forever secure against her enemies, within and without.

Imagine the first breath of quiet after that last fight, with the battle standard of Rozarria in his hands.

_Why not?_

Ghis moves over to the wall. The other Judge marked the box when he walked in, but paid it no greater attention - Bergan is good for some things, but imagination is not his strongest suit.

“Kill this for me, won’t you?”

He opens the cage hard enough to rattle it, to spook the bird into flight - right into the path of Bergan’s sword. No arguing for the man’s reflexes, the blade up and pinning the bird to the wall before the last stray feather hits the ground. Bergan frowns, looking to Ghis and back to the bird and it’s difficult not to laugh, remembering his own suspicions and for a moment he thinks maybe it is all just a delusion. If anyone in the world could force the world into sanity, it would be Bergan.

“You’re certain it’s dead?”

Bergan’s eyes narrow slightly, rather baffled now, and he gives the sword a slight twist, bones grinding and cracking before he draws the sword away and lets what’s left of the poor creature hit the ground with a soft, wet sound.

It doesn’t take long. Just enough time for Bergan to glance at him again, obviously wondering what all that sparring’s knocked loose - and then the wings flap and flutter, tiny bones setting themselves back into place and the blood is dark on the feathers but Ghis knows the wound beneath it is gone. Bergan had all but split the creature in two but here it is, fluttering about the room as they both stare after it. Nothing surprises the man, though Ghis thinks this may have finally come close.

“Hn.”

“Indeed.” Ghis says. “One of the mad Doctor’s miracles, fresh off the vine.”

Bergan pulls a face at that, with even less patience for the labs than he does, but he does not look away. Waiting to hear more.

“A new facet to the Nethicite’s power, so I’ve been told. I believe we have been given… a rare opportunity. Act quickly enough, and we may find the possibilities to be near infinite in scope.” Bergan notices the invitation there, but remains silent. “I’m told the procedure enhances healing, and magickal ability, and strength quite considerably.“ Indeed, even as they watch the little creature begins to peck what is soon a rather large crack into the window at the other side of the room, though it is still not quite strong enough to gain it’s freedom. “A process ultimately intended for humes.”

He waits - and then Bergan does smile, just a little. No, not at all a stupid man.

“How do you know it will work?”

“If the lunatic didn’t get results, we could have been done with him long ago. I doubt Bunansa’s put all this effort in for no reward - and perhaps… even then, this might worth the risk. Neutrality will do us few favors in the world to come - and I would say to you, Bergan, that we deserve far better than the end that will be offered us.” 

“You want to be Emperor.”

Bergan says it flatly, no sign of approval or disdain, and no, Ghis has not thought it in exactly those terms - but really, where else can it end? No one will ever believe him, this it is not all about wresting power for himself. All he desires is returning the Empire to her proper state of grace - but it is true, that Archades is devoid of those who would do anything but use her for their own twisted intrigues and petty squabbling. If he takes one step down this path, he will be the enemy of them all.

Ghis cannot tell what Bergan is thinking, or if he’s about to see how much damage a practice blade might be capable of. Fortunately, the other man does not keep him waiting long.

“I doubt you’ll need any bodyguards, even before the Senate has been dealt with.”

“No.” Ghis says, and smiles. “I will wish to restructure the ground forces, though. We could do with a stronger central command.”

“Lord Zargabaath will no doubt take offense with such a plan, even if he were invited.”

Whatever the Emperor’s fears, the man does seem unfailingly loyal to House Solidor. More’s the pity.

“As would Drace, I imagine, and her little protege.”

“Ah, Gabranth.” Bergan says, with a sound like a blade sliding home. “You still have not accounted for the largest obstacle in your plan - or his brother.”

The elder Solidor is by far the greatest threat to his fledgling goal, though Vayne’s current distance from the capital provides the closest they’ll get to opportunity. Bergan is right, however - he has overlooked the boy entirely.

“You have some quarrel with Lord Larsa?” It hardly seems possible, he is a gentle youth. Useless as the worst of them, but hardly his fault. Already born to the disadvantage of being too noble to fight, and deliberately coddled and blunted so he might never present a threat. Ghis is hardly unfamiliar with bloodshed, the blind ease with which war dispatches both the guilty and the innocent, and yet it seems… somewhat excessive, even so. Bergan marks his hesitance.

“He’s not a child. He’s a Solidor. If you’d got rid of the last one at his age, we wouldn’t have this problem now.”

Ghis nods. “You may very well be right.”

“Don’t worry. When the time comes, I’ll take care of it.”

In the corner of the room, the bird still scrabbles frantically against the glass, trying to reach the sky. 

“You are a man of odd principles, Bergan.”

He shrugs. “It’s the world as it is, nothing more. We all fight, we all die, one day or the next. No sense trying to make it greater than that.”

“I had thought much the same, before today.” Ghis says, and Bergan rolls his eyes.

“Just as long as you don’t start rambling like those fools from that damned lab.”

“The reins of history, eh?” Ghis chuckles, and imagines he can already feel a trickle of that dread power uncurling through his veins, burning away everything between him and the future as it will be. A world without compromise. 

“Come now, Bergan, don’t you want to be a god?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yeah, didn’t forget about that plot point of putting Nethicite into people. 
> 
> 2\. It’s long, but this is Ghis’ only POV chapter so now you know what he’s on about.


End file.
